“I'm going down to the office to find out about it,” and Quincy took his hat and left the room.
Tom was suspicious of his intentions and followed him. Quincy had left the hotel and was walking rapidly towards the scene of disturbance. Tom ran after him, and kept him in sight, but did not speak to him. At first he felt offended that Quincy had not asked him to go with him. Then he reflected: “I virtually told him in advance that I wouldn't go. He's his own master.”
They were nearing a street from which came the sounds of conflict—loud cries, curses, and the reports of firearms. Tom ram forward to prevent Quincy from turning into the street. He was too late—Quincy had turned the corner. Tom, regardless of danger, followed him. He started back with a cry of horror. Quincy had been shot and was lying upon the sidewalk, the blood streaming from a gun-shot wound in his right arm. Tom took him up in his arms, as though he had been a child, and returned to the safety of the unexposed street.
As he lay Quincy upon the sidewalk and took out his handkerchief to make a tourniquet with which to stanch the flow of blood, he cried: “Oh, Quincy, why did you walk right into danger?”
As he uttered the words, a man who was standing nearby, whose dress and swarthy face proclaimed him to be a foreigner, stepped forward and grasped Tom roughly by the arm.
“What did you call that young man,” asked the stranger, his voice trembling, perceptibly.
“I called him by his name—Quincy.”
“Quincy what? Pardon me, but I have a reason for asking.”
“His name is no secret,” said Tom, as he twisted the handkerchief tightly above the wound. “I can't understand your interest in him, but his name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.”
“Thank Heaven,” exclaimed the man. “And thank you,” he added, grasping Tom's hand—“Is he English?”