"What'll we do with the corpse?" she inquired, in an undertaker's best manner.
The funereal suggestion, so sincerely offered, provoked Josephine to a weak peal of laughter.
"Better wait to worry over that till he's dead," she answered briskly, if somewhat incoherently. "And he will be, if we don't watch out. There should be a flask in the motor. Run and get it, Flo. I'll chafe his hands."
"Run!" the other exclaimed. "If I can crawl it, I'll be proud." Nevertheless, she got to her feet, stiffly, but readily enough. "And sprinkle water on his face," she called over her shoulder. "It might cheer him anyhow, after having had it all over him by the ton." Both girls in the first reaction from the stress of their war against death were brimming with joyousness, notwithstanding fatigue.
While Josephine rubbed the rough hands as strongly as she could between her own tender ones, the dog drew near. When the girl looked up, she saw that her pet was licking the man's face. She called out in sharp rebuke. At the same moment, the castaway's eyes unclosed. For long seconds, he stared, unblinking. Then, abruptly, his voice sounded in a low drawl of wonder: "Hit's thet-thar damned man-faced dawg!"