But this was followed by the afterthought that he must
have hurt McGonegal seriously, and that he was wanted in consequence
very much. This disturbed him most, he was surprised to find, because
it precluded his going forth in search of food. "I guess I can't get
you that milk I was looking for," he said, jocularly, to the baby, for
the excitement elated him. "The sun outside isn't good for me health."
The baby settled herself in his arms and slept again, which sobered
Rags, for he argued it was a bad sign, and his own ravenous appetite
warned him how the child suffered. When he again offered her the
mixture he had prepared for her, she took it eagerly, and Rags
breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Then he ate some of the bread and ham
himself and swallowed half the whiskey, and stretched out beside the
child and fanned her while she slept. It was something strangely
incomprehensible to Rags that he should feel so keen a satisfaction in
doing even this little for her, but he gave up wondering, and forgot
everything else in watching the strange beauty of the sleeping baby
and in the odd feeling of responsibility and self-respect she had
brought to him.
He did not feel it coming on, or he would have fought against it, but
the heat of the day and the sleeplessness of the night before, and the
fumes of the whiskey on his empty stomach, drew him unconsciously into
a dull stupor, so that the paper fan slipped from his hand, and he
sank back on the bedding into a heavy sleep.
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