“Hullo!” he said; “what’s the matter with her? By gum, but she looks bad!” And then, with a quick and practised hand, he pulled her up to a sitting posture, and, prying her mouth open with a fork, poured some of the whisky down. It revived her quickly. She sat up, felt for her sunbonnet, and then said:
“I hadn’t oughter have done that, but it came so quick.”
She tried to get up, but Moreau pushed her back.
“Oh, I ain’t sick,” she said, trying to speak bravely; “I’ve been took like that before. It’s just tiredness. I’m all right now.”
She again tried to rise, stood on her feet for a moment, then reeled back on the bunk, with white lips.
“It’s such a weakness,” she whispered; “such a weakness!”
At this moment the baby woke up, and, lifting up its voice, began a loud, violent wail. The woman looked in terror from one man to the other.
“Oh, my poor baby!” she cried; “what’ll I do? Is that one goin’ to go, too?”
“The baby’s all right,” said Moreau. “Don’t begin to worry about that. All babies cry, don’t they?”
“Oh, my poor baby!” she wailed, unheeding, and suddenly beginning to wring her hands. “It’ll die like Willie. It’ll die, too.”