“Bill and Jack’s holdin’ her at the crossin’.”
“Let ’em hold on a minit longer,” said Dick.
He turned and re-entered the house softly.
By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open.
He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in.
The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes.
Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with perspiration.
Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room.
Everything was quiet.
With a sudden resolution he parted his huge moustaches with both hands, and stooped over the sleeping boy.