leaned over the little heap of crumpled clothing.

"Shot, I fancy," he muttered.

Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored
to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay.

"Have you a flask?" he asked. The little Artist eyed him
suspiciously.

"Are you a newspaperman?"

"No, an art student."

"Nothing to do with newspapers?"

"No."

"I don't drink," said the queer little person.

"I never said you did," said Gethryn. "Have you a flask, or haven't
you?"

The stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink
palm.

"We may as well try," he said, and began to chafe her forehead.
"Here, take the whiskey -- let it trickle, so, between her teeth.
Don't spill any more than you can help," he added.