“Then I must carry you,” said Phronsie desperately.
By this time the passage was filling with smoke, and a hoarse babel of sounds, like a distant roar, broke upon their ears.
A man, one of the crew, ran by so roughly that he brushed Phronsie’s cheek with his arm. “Oh, please carry this poor woman to my stateroom!” she cried to him.
“The sailor roared out, ‘The ship’s on fire!’ and was plunging on.”
“Leave me, leave me, deary,” the little old lady was saying. “Good-by, deary; oh, leave the old woman and save yourself!”
The sailor roared out, “The ship’s on fire!” and was plunging on.
“I know it,” said Phronsie; “oh, carry her for me, please!” The hood of her cloak fell back, and she clasped her hands entreatingly.
“I didn’t know ’twas you,” exclaimed the sailor, looking at her for the first time; “you’re the one that writ me the letter to my folks.”
“Yes,” said Phronsie.