Milly took one of the poor street gamin’s hands in her own and chafed it likewise.
Probably never before during his miserable, eventful existence had Swivel known such gentleness. His life had been hard indeed, and it looked as though its lamp had gone out now in the performance of a noble and courageous deed.
There on the storm swept deck Milly and Brandon knelt for nearly an hour before the unconscious boy showed the least sign of life.
Then the eyelids fluttered a little and he drew in his breath with a slight sigh.
“He’s coming to!” Brandon exclaimed.
But although poor Swivel opened his eyes once or twice, it was a long time before he seemed to realize where he was or what had happened.
At last he whispered brokenly.
“Don’t—don’t—fret yerself—missy—I’m—I’m goin’ ter be all right.”
“Are you in pain, Swivel?” queried Brandon, having almost to shout to make himself heard.
Milly was crying softly. The strain of the last twenty hours was beginning to tell on even her bravery and fortitude.