The owner of the golden head drew back as if afraid.
"Ye wouldn't hurt a little 'un—a sick brat? He—he's been hooked. And it's his birthday. Take him, 'cause he'll die if ye don't!"
Moved to a sense of pity, the light-haired woman extended two slender white hands to receive the human bundle, struggling in pain under the muffling shawl.
"He's a dyin'!" gasped Scraggy. "His pappy's a hatin' him! Give him warm milk—"
Again the yacht's whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning her last words. As the stern of the little boat swung round, Scraggy read, stamped in black letters upon it:
Harold Brimbecomb,
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson,
New York.
The yacht shot away up the river, and was lost to the dull eyes that continued peering for a last glimpse of the phantom-like boat that had snatched her dying treasure from her. Then, at last, the stricken woman turned, alone, to meet Lem Crabbe.
"Where's that brat?" he demanded in a thick voice.
"I throwed him in the river," declared the mother. "He were dead. Yer hook killed him, Lem. He's gone!"
"I'll kill his mammy, too!" muttered Crabbe. "Git ye here—here—down here—on the floor!"