A glimmer of comprehension seemed to penetrate her palsied brain.
“Yes, yes!” she said. “What shall I do?”
“Heat a kettle of water, quick. Bring it in his bathtub—and bring some mustard, too. Hurry.”
Impatiently the mother was off before the last “hurry” was hurled at her. Now that a ray of hope was offered, and something definite to do, she was all action.
Reverently the burglar removed the baby’s nightrobe, and, covering the little body with a blanket, he rubbed the legs and arms and back with his huge hands—very, very gently, for fear their roughness would irritate the delicate skin.
In a short time the mother was back with the hot mustard bath. Together they placed the baby in the tub. His little body relaxed—the glassy eyes closed—he breathed regularly—he was asleep.
“Thank God,” breathed the burglar, fervently, though awkwardly, as though such words were strange to his lips.
“He is sleeping,” cried the mother rapturously. “He will live!”
As the mother was drying the little body with soft towels the burglar said brokenly:
“I had a little boy once—about his size—two years old. He died in convulsions because his mother didn’t know what to do and the doctor didn’t get there in time.”