“Better give it another swig, mum,” counselled her companion; and the girl, going on her knees, raised the head, and administered a second swallow of the brandy.  She did not resume her seat, but kept her arm about the boy, in an attempt to render his position easier.  It was a wizened, pinched little face she gazed down at, and now the mouth was drawn as if there was physical suffering, even in the unconsciousness.  Neither head nor hands had apparently ever known soap, but the dirt only gave picturesqueness, and, indeed, to Miss Durant an added pathos; and the tears came into her eyes as she noted that under the ragged coat was only a flimsy cotton shirt, so bereft of buttons that the whole chest was exposed to the cold which but a little while before the girl, clad in furs and sheltered by the carriage, had yet found so nipping.  She raised her free hand and laid it gently on the exposed breast, and slightly shivered as she felt how little warmth there was.

“Please put the fur rug over him,” she requested; and her companion pulled it from under their feet, and laid it over the coiled-up legs and body.

The weight, or the second dose of the stimulant, had an effect, for Miss Durant felt the body quiver, and then the eyes unclosed.  At first they apparently saw nothing, but slowly the dulness left them, and they, and seemingly the whole face, sharpened into comprehension, and then, as they fastened on the blue coat of the policeman, into the keenest apprehension.

“Say,” he moaned, “I didn’t do nuttin’, dis time, honest.”

“I ain’t takin’ you to the station-house,” denied the officer, colouring and looking sideways at his companion.

“You were run over, and we are carrying you to where a doctor can see how much you are hurt,” said the gently.

The eyes of the boy turned to hers, and the face lost some of its fright and suspicion.  “Is dat on de level?” he asked, after a moment’s scrutiny.  “Youse oin’t runnin’ me in?”

“No,” answered Miss Durant.  “We are taking you to the hospital.”

“De horspital!” exclaimed the little chap, his eyes brightening.  “Is Ise in de rattler?”

“The what?” asked Constance.

“De rattler,” repeated the questioner, “de ding-dong.”

“No, you ain’t in no ambulance,” spoke up the officer.  “You’re in this young lady’s carriage.”

The look of hope and pride faded out of the boy’s face.  “Ise oin’t playin’ in no sorter luck dese days,” he sighed.  Suddenly the expression of alarm reappeared in his face.  “Wheer’s me papes?”

“They’re all right.  Don’t you work yourself up over them,” said the roundsman, heartily.

“Youse didn’t let de udder newsies swipe dem, did youse?” the lad appealed anxiously.

“I’ll pay you for every one you lost,” offered Constance.  “How many did you have?”

The ragamuffin stared at her for a moment, his face an essence of disbelief.