He did not dally to consider. Casting away his rod and basket he set out on a run toward the town, holding Anne close to his breast. Cricket streamed after them, but Kit had been a sprinter and an all-around athlete; the beagle’s short bowed legs stood no chance at keeping up.
It seemed to Kit that he made no sort of time; he cursed his impeding rubber boots fervently; in reality, he covered the distance to the nearest drug store at a record speed.
He laid little Anne on the counter, still unconscious, and supported her head on one arm.
“Brandy!” he gasped.
“Artificial respiration,” said the bland but frightened druggist, prompt with first-aid knowledge.
“She’s not drowned; it’s exhaustion. She fainted, fell into the river. Brandy, man! Don’t stop to talk!” Kit ordered.
“You know, Mr. Carrington, I can’t sell brandy without a doctor’s prescription,” said the druggist with finality.
It is certain that Kit’s exclamation was accounted to him as righteousness, for it sprang from love for little Anne.
“Give it and don’t sell it then, you idiot!” he said, savagely. “Give the child brandy and I’ll give you a present later. Good heavens, is this child to lie here in this state while I stalk a doctor? Who’s to know what’s done here, anyway? You use my name; you know me. I’ll be responsible. But I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do to you if you don’t get a move on you, quick! And I’m some boxer, if you want to know.” Kit glared furiously at the small man with the timorous air and the druggist got down a bottle.
“It’s the law, Mr. Carrington; I’m not to blame, and I certainly don’t want to get into trouble breaking laws,” he said, pouring a little brandy into a glass.