Scraggy looked down upon the little boy's face, twisted with pain. She placed her fingers under his chin, closed the tiny jaws, and wrapped the shawl about the dark head. Without a moment's indecision, she thrust him through the window-space and said: "Be ye a good woman, lady, a good woman?"[Pg 9] The owner of the golden head drew back as if afraid. "Ye wouldn't hurt a little 'un-a sick brat? He-he's been hooked. And it's his birthday. Take him, 'cause he'll die if ye don't!" Moved to a sense of pity, the light-haired woman extended two slender white hands to receive the human bundle, struggling in pain under the muffling shawl. "He's a dyin'!" gasped Scraggy. "His pappy's a hatin' him! Give him warm milk-" Again the yacht's whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning her last words. As the stern of the little boat swung round, Scraggy read, stamped in black letters upon it: Harold Brimbecomb, Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson, New York.

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