“For heaven’s sake, Cis?” he questioned her without formulating his question.
“Oh, yes, Tom, for heaven’s sake!” cried Cis. “I just made it. If the police come up and catch us, she’ll be taken in for attempted suicide. We must get her somewhere, quick.”
“Well, what if she is taken in?” Tom disgustedly asked, hating to see Cis in proximity to this woman. “She’ll be looked after by the matron.”
“Oh, no! She must be saved, if she can be. Arrest won’t save her. Can you hear me? Answer me. Were you a Catholic?” Cis asked, bending over the collapsed figure.
“Once I was,” the woman muttered.
Cis straightened herself triumphantly. “The Good Shepherd!” she cried. “Tom, help me to get her up. You poor thing, get up! We are going to take care of you. Get up.”
Tom reluctantly, yet admiring Cis, lifted the castaway, and, staggering, she made out to stand.
“Let me alone; I’m sick,” she moaned.
“Yes, we know. Try to come with us. I’m afraid a policeman will come along,” Cis urged her.
The word acted as a stimulant. “They’d run me in, vagrant, suicide,” she muttered. “What did you stop me for? I’ll get it yet.”