Part 29 (1/2)

The Angel yielded herself to McLean's touch, and he a.s.sured Freckles that she was not seriously injured.

Freckles settled back, a smile of ineffable tenderness on his face.

”Thank the Lord!” he hoa.r.s.ely whispered.

The Angel leaned toward him.

”Now, Freckles, you!” she cried. ”It's your turn. Please get up!”

A pitiful spasm swept Freckles' face. The sight of it washed every vestige of color from the Angel's. She took hold of his hands.

”Freckles, get up!” It was half command, half entreaty.

”Easy, Angel, easy! Let me rest a bit first!” implored Freckles.

She knelt beside him. He reached his arm around her and drew her closely. He looked at McLean in an agony of entreaty that brought the Boss to his knees on the other side.

”Oh, Freckles!” McLean cried. ”Not that! Surely we can do something! We must! Let me see!”

He tried to unfasten Freckles' neckband, but his fingers shook so clumsily that the Angel pushed them away and herself laid Freckles'

chest bare. With one hasty glance she gathered the clothing together and slipped her arm under his head. Freckles lifted his eyes of agony to hers.

”You see?” he said.

The Angel nodded dumbly.

Freckles turned to McLean.

”Thank you for everything,” he panted. ”Where are the boys?”

”They are all here,” said the Boss, ”except a couple who have gone for doctors, Mrs. Duncan and the Bird Woman.”

”It's no use trying to do anything,” said Freckles. ”You won't forget the m.u.f.f and the Christmas box. The m.u.f.f especial?”

There was a movement above them so p.r.o.nounced that it attracted Freckles' attention, even in that extreme hour. He looked up, and a pleased smile flickered on his drawn face.

”Why, if it ain't me Little Chicken!” he cried hoa.r.s.ely. ”He must be making his very first trip from the log. Now Duncan can have his big watering-trough.”

”It was Little Chicken that made me late,” faltered the Angel. ”I was so anxious to get here early I forgot to bring his breakfast from the carriage. He must have been hungry, for when I pa.s.sed the log he started after me. He was so wabbly, and so slow flying from tree to tree and through the bushes, I just had to wait on him, for I couldn't drive him back.”

”Of course you couldn't! Me bird has too amazing good sinse to go back when he could be following you,” exulted Freckles, exactly as if he did not realize what the delay had cost him. Then he lay silently thinking, but presently he asked slowly: ”And so 'twas me Little Chicken that was making you late, Angel?”

”Yes,” said the Angel.

A spasm of fierce pain shook Freckles, and a look of uncertainty crossed his face.

”All summer I've been thanking G.o.d for the falling of the feather and all the delights it's brought me,” he muttered, ”but this looks as if----”

He stopped short and raised questioning eyes to McLean.

”I can't help being Irish, but I can help being superst.i.tious,” he said.