“O Joey!” she cried, trying not to scream; for his face was black with grime, and drawn and haggard. “There, there, don’t try to tell me what has happened,” as he laid his head on her arm.
“Oh! I’ve tried my best—we all have,” said Joel with a convulsive effort, and raising his head, his face working dreadfully; “but it’s gained on us—the ship’s on fire, Phronsie! Hush! we can keep it from Grandpapa a little longer, maybe till morning. O Phronsie!” He held her so closely that she could scarcely breathe. “It broke out in the cotton waste this morning—must have been smouldering some time.”
“You have been helping?” asked Phronsie, as he paused unable to utter another word.
“Yes; took a hand at the pumps,” said Joel, thinking it unnecessary to relate that he had been at them ever since.
“Oh, my poor boy!” cried Phronsie, taking his face in her hands. “Joel, Mamsie would be glad.”
“Phronsie, I’m going back. It can be kept under, I think, from the worst, till morning. The people must not know, for all of us would be lost then in the row they’d make.” He was whispering hoarsely, and Phronsie laid her hand over his mouth, “Hush, dear, I know,” she said.
“There are life-preservers in your rooms,” Joel glanced quickly at hers, “and you know how to get them on if anything suddenly should happen?”
“Yes, Joey dear.”
“But I shall be back to you—never fear about that.”
“Yes, Joey.”