"Excuse me, sir," spoke the lady who had been in the cab. "I want to thank you for what you did," and she extended her hand, encased in a neat glove.
Roy instinctively held out his hand, and then he drew it back. He noted that it was covered with foam and mud, where the horse had splashed it up on the bridle which he grasped. He had not noticed this when the men congratulated him. The lady saw his hesitation and exclaimed:
"What? You hesitate on account of not wanting to soil my gloves? There!" and before Roy could stop her she had grasped both his hands in her own, practically ruining her new gloves, for his left hand was more dirty than was his right. "What do I care for my gloves?" she exclaimed.
"Can't I kiss the nice boy, mother?" pleaded the little girl, whom her parent had placed on the crosswalk, close beside her.
There was another laugh, but Roy was not going to mind that. Though he had no brothers or sisters, he was very fond of children. The next instant he had stooped over and kissed the little girl.
Once more the crowd laughed, but in a friendly way, for Roy was a lad after the heart of every New Yorker—brave, fearless, yet kind.
"I can't begin to thank you," went on the lady. "But for you, Mary and I might have been killed."
"Oh, I guess the horse would have slowed up pretty soon, ma'am," replied Roy.
"Now don't make light of it," urged the lady. "I wish you would call at my home, and see us. My husband will want to add his thanks to mine. Here is our address."
She gave Roy a card on which was engraved the name, "Mrs. Jonathan Rynear," and the address was uptown in New York.