CHAPTER XXIV.
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.