Yes he is!—
No—he's up—safe and sound. Now he rubs the mud out of his eyes, and says, just as coolly as if he had not barely escaped with his skin.
"Where's my box?"
"Never mind the box," say the crowd, "as long as you are not hurt."
"But I do," said the little Dutchman, "for that's the way I get my living, selling these things. Oh dear—the box is broke, and everything is spoiled."
"Make up a purse for him," says a gentleman, passing round his hat.
Coppers, and shillings, and quarters, and half dollars flow into the hat, and finally a dollar bill.
"There," said the gentleman, smiling, "now take that home to your mother, my boy."
"My mother is dead," sobbed the child.
"Pass round the hat again," said the gentleman—a tear in his eye.