CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
She sent no glance at Ann, nor did she see Fledra shrinking in the corner. No thought came to her weak brain save of the two men at grips with death. She staggered forward with a cry.
"Lemmy, Lemmy, ye wouldn't kill yer own brat?... He's our little 'un!... Lemmy!... God!... Ye've killed him!"
Scraggy put her hands on Everett, and saw Lem struggle to sit up, the lust of killing still blazing in his eyes. He had heard the woman's words, and as he slowly grasped the import of them he turned over and raised his head while pulling desperately at his throat.
"Oh, Lemmy, love," she murmured, "ye've killed him this time! He's dead!" She leaned farther over, and kissed the white face of her son. "Yer hook's killed our little 'un, Lemmy—my little 'un, my little 'un!"
"Oh, no, no, he isn't dead!" cried Ann. "He can't be dead!" She let go her hold on Fledra, and, with Scraggy, bent over Everett. "Oh, he breathes! But he isn't your son?"
"Yep; he be Lemmy's boy and mine," answered Scraggy, lifting her eyes once more to Ann. "Look! He were hurt here by the hook when he were a baby." She drew aside Everett's tattered shirt-front and displayed a long white mark.
Ann staggered back. Everett had said to her:
"My mother will know me by the mark on my breast."