“Why do——” Jo Ann checked the question at the end of her tongue and quickly broke the mug against the stone metate, then handed her one of the pieces.
Wide eyed, she watched Florence place the piece of pottery, glazed side down, over the boy’s mouth. After a short interval she saw her take it up and examine it.
“Look here, Jo! There’s a tiny speck of moisture on this! Don’t you see it?” Florence exclaimed excitedly.
“Yes, but——”
“That means he’s not dead! There’s a fighting chance for him yet.” She turned and repeated this to the mother.
“Let’s try artificial respiration,” Jo Ann put in excitedly. “I know how! I can help you.”
Florence nodded assent as she began lifting the thin little arms up and down, being careful to press them against his sides each time. While she was doing this, the mother and grandmother were mumbling their prayers, the tears rolling down their cheeks.
After Florence had worked for several minutes, she heard sudden footsteps back of her, then a deep voice demanding, “What are you doing? My son is dead. Why are you disturbing him?”
She turned about quickly and saw a dark, grimy, bearded man and behind him the blue-eyed boy. With a gesture to Jo Ann to continue the artificial respiration, Florence rose and began explaining why she thought the boy was alive. She picked up the piece of pottery, saying, “Look! I’ll show you.”
Just as she was placing it over the boy’s mouth, she noticed a tiny flickering of his eyelids. “See!” she cried triumphantly, pointing to his eyelids. “He is alive!”