"So it was Tartar, after all," whispered Fouchette. "Dear Tartar!"
"A brave dog, Tartar,—stuck to you to the last," put in the policeman.
"Truly!"
Half a dozen men cried at once, "Vive Tartar!" with the enthusiasm of true Frenchmen.
And if a dog ever did deserve the encomiums that were showered upon him Tartar certainly was that dog.
As soon as Fouchette began to revive, a stalwart bargewoman, awakened in her little cubby by the cries of the men in the vicinity, and who had hastily turned out to see for herself, had disappeared for a moment in her floating home, and shortly afterwards returned with some substantial clothing borrowed from her family wardrobe.
"How thin the child is!" she remarked, as she substituted the dry clothing on the spot.
"Thin!" growled a bystander; "she had to be mighty thin to come down the river on an empty basket!"
"You see, she must have fallen in with the basket on her back——"
"I was pushed in," corrected Fouchette.