THE WORK OF A REAL HERO.
Jerry’s heart was in his throat when he sprang to the rescue of the little child in the street. He saw that the horse attached to the ice-wagon could not be stopped and realized only too well what it meant should he be struck down.
Yet the sight of that innocent face nerved him on, and in less time than it takes to write it he had the child in his arms. Clinging to the little one, he flung himself backward, and like a flash the horse sprang past, dragging the ice-wagon so close that the wheels scraped his leg.
A shout went up from the crowd, but Jerry did not hear what was said. Staggering up, he ran back to the sidewalk, leaving the baby-carriage a wreck behind him.
In another moment the girl who had given the first cry of alarm was at Jerry’s side.
“Is he hurt? Is little Tommy hurt?” she cried, as she snatched the youngster from Jerry’s arms.
“Me fell in the dirt,” lisped the little one. “Me ain’t hurt, but me awful dirty.”
“Never mind the dirt, dear,” cried the girl. “I am thankful you escaped. Mary, why didn’t you take better care of him?”
The last words were addressed to an Irish girl who had just sauntered up.
“I went to get a hoky-poky at the corner,” replied the girl. “I don’t care to mind yer brother any more anyway,” she added, and darted out of sight into the crowd.
Seeing the little boy was uninjured, the crowd moved on, and presently the young oarsman found himself alone with the girl, who appeared to be several years older than himself.
“You are a brave boy,” she said, warmly. “I would like to reward you, but I am poor.”
“I don’t want any reward,” replied Jerry, stoutly. “It was a close shave, though.”
“You look like a stranger around here.”
“I am—I just arrived in New York and I am looking for a boarding-house. Can you tell me where this one is?” and Jerry showed her the card the lady had given him.
“Oh, yes; it is one block over to your left—a real nice house, too. May I ask your name?”
“Jerry Upton.”
“Mine is Nellie Ardell, and this is my brother Tommy. We are alone here.”
“Haven’t you any folks?”
“No. Mother was with us up to last winter, but she had consumption and died.”
The tears stood in Nellie Ardell’s eyes as she spoke. Jerry saw at once that she had had a hard struggle of it.
“What do you do for a living?” he ventured to ask.
“I do sewing and mending for my neighbors—principally mending for the girls who work in the stores.”
“And can you make much that way?”
“Not a great deal. But I try to make enough to pay the rent and store bills. May I ask what you are going to do in New York?”
“I came to find a real estate dealer named Alexander Slocum. I want to see him about some property left by my uncle to my father. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Heard of him?” she cried in surprise. “He is my landlord.”
Jerry was dumfounded by this unexpected bit of information.
“You are certain?”
“Why, of course I am. He was around to see me only day before yesterday about the rent. I am a bit behind, and I had to put him off.”
“And what kind of a man is he?”
“I think he is very hard-hearted. But then, that may be because I am behind in my payment. He threatened to put me out of my rooms if I didn’t pay when he called again.”
“How many rooms have you?”
“Only two, and I pay six dollars a month for them.”
“And how far behind are you?”
“I only owe for the month.”
“And he won’t trust you even that long? He certainly must be mean,” Jerry rejoined warmly.
“You said something about property belonging to your father,” said Nellie Ardell. “Has Mr. Slocum an interest in it?”
“He has and he hasn’t,” the boy replied, and he told his story in a few words as they walked along to the entrance of the house in which she lived.
“Well, I trust you get your right, Jerry Upton,” said the girl. “Come and see me some time.”
“I will,” and after Jerry had procured Alexander Slocum’s office address from her, the pair separated.
Jerry was very thoughtful as he proceeded on his way. By a turn of fortune he had gotten on Slocum’s track much quicker than expected. The question was, how should he best approach the man?
“I’ll settle that after I have procured a boarding place,” he thought, and hurried to the address given him.
Mrs. Price, the landlady, was a very nice old person. She had a top room in the back she said she would let with board, for five dollars a week, and Jerry closed with her without delay, paying for one week in advance.
This finished, our hero found he was hungry, and after a washing-up, ate supper with a relish. He could not help but notice that the vegetables and milk served were not as fresh as those at home, but remembered he was now in the city and not on a farm, and did not complain.
Mrs. Price had taken in another new boarder that day, a tall, slim man, possibly thirty years of age. He was introduced as Mr. Wakefield Smith, and he did all he could to make himself popular. Jerry felt that a good bit of his pleasantry was forced, but as there was no use in finding fault, he became quite friendly with the man.
“Supposing we take a walk out together this evening?” Wakefield Smith suggested. “No doubt you would like to see the sights.”
“I’ll go out for an hour or so,” answered the young oarsman, and they started while it was yet light.
Mr. Wakefield Smith knew the metropolis from end to end, and as the pair covered block after block, he pointed out various buildings. He smoked constantly, and several times invited Jerry to have a cigar, but the youth declined.
“Supposing we have a drink, then?” he urged.
Again Jerry declined, which made the man frown. He insisted Jerry should at least have some soda water with him, and at last the boy accepted, and they entered rather a modest looking drug store on a side street.
“Hullo! what’s that crowd on the street?” exclaimed Mr. Wakefield Smith, as the glasses were set out, and as Jerry looked out of the doorway he fancied the man shoved up close to where his glass was standing and made a movement as if to throw something into it.
Jerry saw nothing unusual in the street, and the man’s manner made him suspicious, so that he hesitated about drinking the soda. He swallowed a small portion of it and threw the remainder in a corner.
“What’s the matter, don’t you like it?” demanded Wakefield Smith, almost roughly.
“No, it’s bitter.”
“Humph!” He growled something under his breath. “I’ll not treat you again,” he went on, as they came out on the street.
What Jerry had taken of the soda had made his head ache, and this caused the young oarsman to grow more suspicious than ever. He had read in a daily paper about folks being drugged by friendly strangers, and resolved to be on guard.
The pair passed on the distance of a block, and then Jerry announced his intention of returning home to the boarding-house.
“Oh, don’t go yet,” urged Mr. Wakefield Smith. “Come on across the way. There are some beautiful pictures in an art store window I want to show you. One of the pictures is worth ten thousand dollars.”
He caught our hero by the arm and hurried him over the way and into the crowd. Jerry was jostled to the right and left, and it was fully a minute before he squeezed himself out to a clear spot. Then he looked around for Mr. Wakefield Smith, but the man was gone.
Like a flash Jerry felt something had gone wrong. He put his hand in his pocket. His money was missing!
