Rags felt a cold rush of fear
and uncertainty come over him as he stared about him helplessly for
aid. He had seen babies look like this before, in the tenements; they
were like this when the young doctors of the Health Board climbed to
the roofs to see them, and they were like this, only quiet and still,
when the ambulance came clattering up the narrow streets, and bore
them away. Rags carried the baby into the outer room, where the sun
had not yet penetrated, and laid her down gently on the coverlets;
then he let the water in the sink run until it was fairly cool, and
with this bathed the baby's face and hands and feet, and lifted a cup
of the water to her open lips. She woke at this and smiled again, but
very faintly, and when she looked at him he felt fearfully sure that
she did not know him, and that she was looking through and past him at
something he could not see.
He did not know what to do, and he wanted to do so much. Milk was the
only thing he was quite sure babies cared for, but in want of this he
made a mess of bits of the dry ham and crumbs of bread, moistened with
the raw whiskey, and put it to her lips on the end of a spoon. The
baby tasted this, and pushed his hand away, and then looked up and
gave a feeble cry, and seemed to say, as plainly as a grown woman
could have said or written, "It isn't any use, Rags.
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