“I kind of don’t feel that I dare be so happy, ’Lores, when I know you get sorry sometimes. You’re not to be sorry any more. I’ve explained to John about why I want to take care of you always. I’m not too little now to look after you and when I grow up I intend to make you awful happy. I’d like to tell you now that special name for you that I——”
The girl had to lean low to catch his confession. But not for all the lesser joys of her life would she have missed it. On her knees in the gravel of the path she held him for one precious moment to her heart. Although quickly she restrained herself in order not to offend his idea of big-boy decorum and although the homeward pace set by his physical limitations was slow, she seemed to walk on air—seemed to have realized in her virginity the joy of motherhood.
For once Jack’s anxiety to precede his hero home had been well advised. It took time to reach the nearest exit, then to retrace their steps up-town along the pavement that fronted the park wall. Scarcely had they come opposite the Cabot block when they saw John in riding clothes about to mount the white Arabian which was the chief of his relaxations.
Scuttling to his side the curb, John, Jr., announced their return in his lustiest shout. Dolores understood the excitement which had snatched his hand from hers when she noticed that a scraggly Airedale puppy was tucked under the left parental elbow.
For the moment the “Stop” sign of the traffic policeman at the crossing just below had cut off the flow of vehicles. John Cabot, hearing and seeing his son, returned to the groom the reins of his horse. By neck-nap he held up the wriggling symbol of re-established faith; then, stooping, set the young dog on his feet and started him across the street to meet the lad who had earned his ownership.
Jack’s whistle of encouragement was out-shrilled by the “Go” blast from below. The puppy, despite the wobbliness of his legs, evidently had lived to learn. The louder the whistle, the stronger the canine obligation. His stub tail straight up, his square-chopped jowl low, his ears flat-pointed toward his goal, he set off in form that would have done proud his bull-terrier and otter-hound ancestors toward the policeman down the street.
Jack took after him. At a pace of which Dolores would not have believed him capable, with his overly-long arms outstretched and his head lopping well to one side, he slithered regardlessly into the crush of traffic. As one, the father and the governess realized his danger. From opposite curbs, both started after him. The Airedale, although debarred by youth from discrimination, showed that he had inherited speed. But Jack, urged beyond thought of self by desire to rescue his new and dear possession, gained in the pursuit. Lunging close, he reached for the waggling stub tail. Almost did he grasp it. Almost did he, as well as the dog, reach the safety zone.
On the right side of the Avenue, John Cabot had been hindered by the up-streaking cars. On the left, Dolores might have been in time, except that a misguided citizen, seeing a woman rush directly in front of a heavy car, laid violent hands upon her and dragged her back. Her shriek mingled with the automobile’s siren. Above both warnings the traffic whistle shrilled and shrilled again.
The movement of the street scene suddenly ceased. Each car was brought up short. Pedestrians stood to stare, as if under some horrid spell. Even the puppy paused at the repetition of the command which before had moved him. At the worst possible moment for the continuation of the house of Cabot, a sport car had spun around the corner.
The case was one of the present-day many too brief for emergency brakes. The tires smoked with the startled driver’s shout. But from the victim there came not the slightest protest.