With a mad outcry and yells of “Down with him! Down with him!” the crowd surged towards the officer.
At that moment, right in front of the fearless Fitzpatrick, almost under his hands, popped up a small boy.
“Can I help you?”
It was little more than a breath, but Tom caught it, and glanced down with the hint of a smile as he recognized Blue Stickney.
“Sure! Blow my whistle!” was the quick answer, in a tone to match the query. With a deft motion, the little instrument was in the boy’s hand.
Thomas Fitzpatrick’s whistle! Blue could scarcely comprehend the truth. For the joy of this moment he would have braved greater dangers than the present. Only a few days ago—or so it seemed—the kindly officer had explained the uses of his whistle, telling over his various signals. Blue remembered them every one. Three sharp toots, then a long, long blast—that was for help, and, freeing himself from the jam, the bit of wood and metal was at his lips.
Above the uproar Fitzpatrick heard the call with inward relief. He had not felt sure that Blue would recollect; but he could scarcely have done better himself.
As for the boy, he repeated it fearlessly, exultingly, once, twice, three times, in swift succession; yet nobody interfered. A small boy with a whistle was not an unusual combination, and the mob had too much else on hand to be interested in boys.
It was not a brutal crowd, but it was excited, defiant, and reckless. If Thomas Fitzpatrick had not known just how to manage it, and if four brass-buttoned men had not come racing to his aid,—there is no telling what might have occurred. But before the body of the throng realized what was happening the leaders of the disturbance were being marched off to the police station.
Blue returned the whistle, and received most hearty thanks, given in his hero’s best style. Then he cut across an alley and an open lot, in a crow line for The Flatiron; he must unload his big news at home before looking further for work.