"Poor little beggar, he's like ice!" he said, in a low voice. "He would never have got to the shore; he's so small. If I'd some brandy! We'll get some at the ferry. Can you row?"
"No," she said. "Yes; I mean, I'll try."
He held out his hand.
"Mind how you cross. Take off your gloves first, or you'll blister your hands."
She obeyed, her eyes downcast. They exchanged places and he showed her how to hold the sculls.
"You'll do very well. You can row as slowly as you like. He's alive; I can feel him move! Poor little chap! Sorry to trouble you, Miss Falconer, but the only chance of saving him is to keep him warm."
She was silent far a moment, then she glanced at him.
"You're fond of dogs?"
"Why, of course," he answered. "Aren't you?"
"Y-es; but I don't think I'd risk pneumonia for one. You were feverishly hot just now, and that little beast must be stone cold; you'll get bronchitis or something, Mr. Orme."