In her eagerness to take his attention from the shrieking yacht, now close to the scow, Scraggy advanced toward the swaying man.  She tried to lift brave eyes to his face; but they were filled with tears as they met his drunken, shifting look.

“Lem, Lemmy dear,” she pleaded, “we love ye, both the brat an’ me!  He can say ’Daddy’—­”

“Git out of my way, git out!  Some’n’ be a callin’.  Git out, I say!”

“Not yet, not yet—­don’t go yet, Deary....  Deary!  Wait till the kid says ‘Daddy.’” She held out the rosy babe, pushing him almost under Lem’s chin.  “Look at him, Lemmy!  Ain’t—­he—­sweet?  He’s yer own pretty boy-brat, and—­”

Her loving plea was cut short; for the man, with a vicious growl, raised his stumped arm, and the sharp part of the hook scraped the skin from her hollow cheek.  It paused an instant on the level of her chin, then descended into the upturned chest of the child.  With a scream, Scraggy dragged the boy back, and a wail rose from the tiny lips.  Crabbe turned, cursing audibly, and stumbled up the steps to the stern of the boat.  The woman heard him fall in his drunken stupor, and listened again and again for him to rise.  Her face was white and rigid as she stopped the flow of blood that drenched the infant’s coarse frock.  Then, realizing the danger both she and the child were in, since in all likelihood Lem would sleep but a few minutes, she slid open the window and looked out upon the dark river in search of help.  Splashes of rain pelted her face, while a gust of wind caused the scow to creak dismally.  Scraggy could see no human being, only the lights of Albany blinking dimly through the raging storm.  Another shrieking whistle warned her that the yacht was still near.  Sailors’ voices shouted orders, followed by the chug, chug, chug of an engine reversed.

But, in spite of the efforts of the engineer, the wind swung the small craft sidewise against the scow, and, stupefied, Scraggy found herself gazing into the face of another woman who was peering from the launch’s window.  It was a small, beautiful face shrouded with golden hair, the large blue eyes widened with terror.  For a brief instant the two women eyed each other.  Just then the drunken man above rose and called Scraggy’s name with an oath.  She heard him stumbling about, trying to find the stairs, muttering invectives against herself and her child.

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?”

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.