Then he went to the bed.
As carefully as possible, he wrapped Harry in the blankets, seeking to protect him in every way against the cold.

With a great effort, he lifted him, the sick man's frame huddled in his arms like some gigantic baby, and started out of the eerie, darkened house.
The stairs--the landing--the hall! Then a query from below: "Is that you, Roady ?" The breath pulled sharp into Fairchild's lungs.

He answered in the best imitation he could give of the voice of Squint Rodaine: "Yes.

Go on with your digging, Honey.

I 'll be there soon." "And you'll kiss me ?" "Yes.