It was then that Ruth stooped lower and secured a grip upon the black man’s sleeve. She held on grimly while her chum shrieked for help. Jimson came staggering along to their aid.
“Hold on t’ him, Miss Ruth!” he cried. “We’ll git him!”
But if it had depended upon the spent warehouse boss to rescue the boy and his burden, they would never have been saved. Two of the men at the other end of the porch finally heard Helen and Nettie and came to help.
“Haul that negro in,” said one, laughing. “Is he worth saving, Jimson?”
“I ‘spect so,” gasped the boss of the cotton warehouse. “But I know well that that white boy is. My old woman sho’ wouldn’t ha’ seen me ag’in if it hadn’t been fo’ Curly. I was jes’ about all in.”
So was Curly, as the girls could see. When the boy was dragged out upon the porch floor, and lay on his back in the shallow water, he could neither move nor speak. The men tried to raise him to his feet, but his left leg doubled under him.
It was Ruth who discovered what was the matter. “Bring him inside. Lay him on a couch. Don’t you see that the poor boy has broken his leg?” she demanded.
CHAPTER XXI—THE NEXT MORNING
The fire was now at its height, and many of the men were fighting the flames as they leaped across from the burning cottage. Therefore, not many had been called to the help of the refugees from the wrecked bateau.
“I’ll be whip-sawed!” complained Jimson. “Foolin’ with their blamed old bonfire, they might ha’ let me an’ my negroes drown. This yere little Yankee boy is wuth the whole bilin’ of ’em.”