When he awoke it was
nearly dusk and past six o'clock, as he knew by the newsboys calling
the sporting extras on the street below. He sprang up, cursing
himself, and filled with bitter remorse.
"I'm a drunken fool, that's what I am," said Rags, savagely. "I've let
her lie here all day in the heat with no one to watch her." Margaret
was breathing so softly that he could hardly discern any life at all,
and his heart almost stopped with fear. He picked her up and fanned
and patted her into wakefulness again and then turned desperately to
the window and looked down. There was no one he knew or who knew him
as far as he could tell on the street, and he determined recklessly to
risk another sortie for food.
"Why, it's been near two days that child's gone without eating," he
said, with keen self-reproach, "and here you've let her suffer to save
yourself a trip to the Island. You're a hulking big loafer, you are,"
he ran on, muttering, "and after her coming to you and taking notice
of you and putting her face to yours like an angel." He slipped off
his shoes and picked his way cautiously down the stairs.
As he reached the top of the first flight a newsboy passed, calling
the evening papers, and shouted something which Rags could not
distinguish.
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