He was glad she was alive. A tremendous sense of relief came over him, and with it relaxation from the strain he too had gone through. He could have lain down on the floor and slept for many hours.
"Get some rest, Jim. You need it," he said.
"Not so much as you."
"Yes, your struggle was greater than mine. Sleep, man; then you can watch when I give up."
Jim lay down. He was in a dead slumber in a minute or two.
Glen sat looking at the woman. A slight colour came into her cheeks, her lips were not so blue, a warmth spread over her body; he could feel it as he touched her bare arm. Then a curious thing happened. He bent down and kissed her, not like Jim Benny, on the lips, but on her forehead, reverently, tenderly, like a father would a child—and he was the most reckless rider on the fence. Both men were among the legion of the lost, why was only known to themselves, but they had given this woman what many a one of her sex in a great city would have been thankful for—human kindness.
"Sleep's best for her," he thought, as he moistened her lips again. "She's been hot and cold, but there's a nice glow on her now. It's healthy. She'll pull through. I'll bet she pulls through, and we'll have done it, Jim, and I, and Bill. He's had a big share in it. I should say the three of us will be able to look after her and find out all about her."
Jim had his rest. Glen roused him when he found sleep would overcome him whether he willed it or no.
"Wet her lips with it when they're dry. Place your finger on and feel."
Jim nodded. He thought how he had placed his lips to hers when Glen was away. He was ashamed of it; somehow he thought he ought to tell him. He'd think it over while he slept.