“Just think,” concluded the doctor, “here was a rara avis—a dead person’s friend who thought a doctor should be rewarded for doing the best he could.”
And when I heard the story I said, “Old fellow, that boy’s sentiments were awfully out of place, but who shall say that they were out of tune?”
There are many book-made heroes, but few of real flesh and blood. There was one among the injured ones who were brought in unconscious and laid upon the tables at that restaurant. He was a boy of some twelve or fourteen years of age. He remained unconscious for fully half an hour. Just as the doctors were about to give him up as hopeless, he began to revive, and was soon out of danger. Several policemen approached him.
“What’s your name, sonny?” asked one of the officers.
“I won’t tell you my name,” replied the boy.
“Yes, but you must tell me your name.”
“But I won’t do it, so there now,” and the boy set his teeth defiantly.
Curious to know why the boy objected to telling who he was, I motioned the officers aside and asked quietly,
“Why don’t you give the policemen your name, my boy?”
“’Cause,” replied the boy, “if I do, my pa and my ma’ll hear about my bein’ hurt an’ it’ll scare ’em most to death.”