When the cousins entered the town they found that there was something of a commotion among the people. Prominent citizens stopped Mr. Mortimer to express their congratulations, and to see the youths who had “bearded the lion in his den;” while the little street Arabs gave vent to their feelings by shouting, “Bully for you!” “Henry’s a bouncer!” “Up with yer hands, and off with yer hats; Henry’s the boy for to b-u-s-t um!”
“Will, I guess we’re heroes, after all!” Henry chuckled, “When I was suffering down there at the foot of the hill, I almost concluded that we’d made fools of ourselves; but this doesn’t seem like it!”
“Yes; but I wish they wouldn’t take so much notice of us.”
“Fiddle! Will, you ought to live in the city!”
The party moved on. A golden head leaned out of the upper window of a certain house which they were approaching; the beautiful blue eyes glanced anxiously up and down the street; a well-known voice—the voice of the girl who had given Henry a glass ink-bottle—asked timidly of a passer-by: “Have they found them yet?”
A certain boy—by name, the estimable Johnny Jones—was loitering near, blinking with sleep and jealousy; and he took it upon himself to answer jeeringly: “Found them? Oh, yes; they’ve found the heroes, and they’re carting them home in the wagon that’s just here.”
The golden head was drawn in quickly, but the window was not shut.
The heroes were so near that they heard all. Then again the street Arabs ran alongside; again they took up their cry.
Poor Johnny Jones! His envy, or jealousy, was almost too much for him.
And Henry?