“Will yer go right up an’ arrest ’em?” The voice was eager.
They were walking slowly in the direction of the City Hall, and the officer glanced up at the clock in the tower.
“Can’t leave my beat now,” he answered. “I shall be off duty in half an hour; then we’ll attend to the case.”
“An’ you’ll arrest ’em, won’t yer?” Blue insisted.
A little smile flickered on Thomas Fitzpatrick’s broad face. “Don’t think ’t will be necessary,” he said in confident tone. “We’ll git the bird.”
“But they won’t let yer have it!” the boy hastened to assure him.
“You wait an’ see!” laughed the officer. “You wait an’ see! How’s the kid comin’ on?”
“This has done him all up. I found him in one of his dreadful turns when I came home from school. He thinks that bird is it, for sure!”
The big man grew grave. “A shame!” he muttered, with a slow shake of his head. “Poor little kid! But we’ll have him smilin’ again before long. You tell him Tom Fitzpatrick will git his bird for him, an’ not to worry another mite. I’ll meet you here in half an hour, and we’ll fix ’em!”
Blue bounded away to the top floor of The Flatiron, and found Doodles deep in Granny’s story of her girlhood days in one of old Ireland’s famous castles. Nothing short of Caruso himself could have brought the small boy so much joy as the message of his adored Thomas Fitzpatrick; for ever since the afternoon of The Flatiron fire, when Doodles was alone on the fourth floor and the gallant young Irishman—then a fireman—had bounded up the burning stairs through the thick smoke and had carried the helpless child down to fresh air and safety, the name of Fitzpatrick had been an honored one in the Stickney family.