“In my locker there, sir, I’ve got a drop o’ whisky. I keeps it there fur ’mergencies like this,” said Carter.
Hammond moved to allow the man to reach a seat-locker in the stern. The next minute, while Hammond supported the woman, the waterman poured a few drops of the spirit down her throat.
She coughed and sputtered, but the draught restored her. She began to cry in a low, whimpering way.
“We must get her ashore, Carter,” cried Hammond. “I’ll take the oars, and, as you know the riverside better than I do, just steer into the nearest landing-place you know.”
Carter leaped to the bows, cast off the painter, and hurried aft again.
“Jes’ ’long yere, sir, there’s an old landin’ as’ll jes’ serve us. Wots yer fink ter do wi’ the pore soul, sir—not ’and her over to the perlice?”
“No, neither the police nor workhouse, Carter. I wish I could see her face, and see what kind of woman she is.”
By way of reply, Carter struck a match, and lit a small bull’s-eye lantern. When the wick had caught light, he flashed it on the face of the woman.
Her eyes were closed, her face was deadly pale. Her hair was dishevelled. But in the one flashing glance Hammond took at her, he recognized her.
“It’s Mrs. Joyce!” he muttered half-aloud and in amazed tones.