"Let me take him up. I know I can help him get his breath," he said to the nurse.
"No, I think you'd better not move him," she said.
"Well, I can't stand here and see him suffer like that," said Jerry. Deftly and with infinite tenderness he lifted his small son, blankets and all, holding his head up with one hand. He walked slowly up and down the room with him, talking to him.
"Look here, old man, this is no kind of welcome to give your daddy! Can't you brace up a bit and manage a smile? Your old pal, Doctor Grant, is coming along presently and he'll give you a pill that will make it all right."
The baby was quiet, watching him, but still that awful gasping for breath went on.
"Ride-a-cock-horse to Banbury Cross," big Jerry began softly. It seemed to Jane that she was smothering. She went out on the balcony outside the room, where that mocking song came faintly, punctuated with Baby's cries for help.
"God, if you'll let him live till Doctor Grant comes, I'll expiate!" she said over and over.
Presently she heard the distant train, that was to bring her messenger of relief, whistle in the station. After what seemed aeons of time a cab rattled to the house. A quick, alert step came up the steps. She made a supreme effort at self-control and went back into the room to meet him.
One look at Jerry and the boy—a nod to Jane—then his hat and coat were off and he had small Jerry in his hands.
"You want me to take charge here?" he asked.