Only
the outcast Henry at the sweep ever and anon lifted his voice
between sobs of mingled rage and disappointment, and demanded
what was doing.
"Think he is going to die, Polly?" whispered Cavendish at length.
Their heads, hers very black and glossy, his very blond, were
close together as they bent above the injured man.
"I never say a body's going to die until he's dead," said Polly.
"He's still breathing, and a Christian has got to do what they
can. Don't you think you ought to tie up?"
"The freshet's leaving us. I'll run until we hit the big water
down by Pleasantville, and then tie up," said Cavendish.
"I reckon we'd better lift him on to one of the beds--get his wet
clothes off and wrap him up warm," said Polly.
"Oh, put him in our bed!" cried all the little Cavendishes.
And Yancy was borne into the smaller of the two shanties, where
presently his bandaged head rested on the long communal pillow.
Then his wet clothes were hung up to dry along with a portion of
the family wash which fluttered on a rope stretched between the
two shanties.
The raft had all the appearance of a cabin dooryard. There was,
in addition to the two shelters of bark built over a light
framework of poles, a pen which housed a highly domestic family
of pigs, while half a dozen chickens enjoyed a restricted
liberty. With Yancy disposed of, the regular family life was
resumed. It was sun-up now. The little Cavendishes, reluctant
but overpersuaded, had their faces washed alongside and were
dressed by Connie, while Mrs.
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