Under such circumstances, some men would have thanked Providence. Dr.
McAlister was of other stuff.
"Phebe, come here!" he commanded. "You know what to do. You go to work on Mac, while I try to see if anything can be done for Billy. Work for your life, for there's a life hanging on yours now."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Yes dear, Uncle Billy was almost drowned, in trying to get you out of the water."
"Drowned dead, mamma?"
"Yes, Mac."
For a minute, Mac silently contemplated the possibility of his uncle's dying. Then his face dimpled into a smile once more, as he said,—
"If he was dead, mamma, I should get a little warm 'pirit and put in his stomach, and ven he would be all well again."
It seemed strange to Hope to be laughing once more. All the night through, a heavy cloud of anxiety had rested upon Valhalla where one hero at least was lying. It had been no easy feat which Billy Farrington had attempted, and no one was more keenly aware of the fact than he, himself. Well and strong enough for all practical purposes, his physique in reality was no match for men whose boyhood had been sound, and no match at all for the fury of Quantuck surf in a gale. He had realized all that, yet he had not hesitated for an instant as to what was the one thing for him to do. Billy's code of honor was a simple one and a straight-forward. It even included the possibility of laying down one's life for a little child.
All that night, the doctor worked over him. For a long time, it seemed to him a losing fight; but he prolonged it to the end, and in the end he was victorious. Phebe had succeeded in bringing Mac to consciousness, and she was superintending Hope's putting him to bed; the doctor had ordered the others out of the room, and he and Theodora were alone with Billy when at last the blue eyes opened.