“First gray streak of dawn,” she muttered. Then she thought of Lucile.
“Stay where you are,” she said to Marian. “I’m going to try to get to Lucile.”
By the aid of the feeble light she saw her opportunity to vault over a careening chair and to make a dash for it. A second later she was at Lucile’s side.
“Lucile!” she said softly. “Lucile!”
The girl’s eyes were closed. A sudden fear seized Florence and her heart stood still a beat. Was Lucile asleep, unconscious, or—or was she dead?
* * * * * * * *
Over in the darkness and storm by the old scow, Mark Pence was slowly regaining consciousness. At first he imagined that a tiny train of cars was running about on the top of his head. This illusion vanished. He felt something hard in his mouth—tried to think what it was. He had been gagged! That was his first thought. No, that wasn’t it. He was breathing through the thing. The mouthpiece to his mask! That was it. He had kept it in his mouth.
He was fully conscious now but did not attempt to sit up. Footsteps were approaching. He heard a voice.
“They got away,” a man’s voice grumbled.
“All but one. Drunk, that’s what they was. You can’t hardly shoot drunk men.”