The babe, wrapped in a coarse crash towel, lay in the hollow of the little mother's arm, its red, puckered little face rested on her snowy bosom, the while she gazed downward at her treasure. It came to The Worst Bad Man very suddenly that once upon a time a woman had gazed upon him with that same look of yearning and joy ineffable; and with the thought he reached for the mother's left hand and carried it to his cracked and blistered lips. He spoke no word, but as he bowed his reckless head reverently over that fevered hand he seemed to cry aloud:
“Here is my wasted and worthless life. I offer it in exchange for yours.”
The girl mother's calm, benevolent eyes beamed their gratitude. She understood, and like a true mother she accepted his tribute—only the sacrifice could not be for her.
“What is your name?” she asked wearily.
“Tom Gibbons.”
“And yours?” turning to The Wounded Bad Man.
“Bill Kearny.”
She glanced inquiringly at The Youngest Bad Man.
“Bob Sangster,” he replied.
“Will you save my baby?” Slowly, searchingly, the wonderful eyes confronted each Bad Man in turn.