"Oh, Lord!" gasped Fred. "He must be killed!" and he sprang forward to pick him up.
The boy was unconscious. Instantly a dozen brokers were on hand to render aid. Broker Tracey came running down to see about him and get the telegram the boy was sent out with. Bob came hurrying down too.
"This is too bad," said Tracey. "I am sorry. He is a good messenger. Janitor! Janitor!"
The janitor came and by that time the boy had recovered consciousness. He groaned in agony. The physician, whose office was in the building, examined him.
"Left arm and leg broken," he said.
"Lord, but I am sorry. Doctor, take charge of him, see him through and send your bill to me. Tom, my boy, your pay shall go on just the same. See if anything is wanted, janitor, and get it for him. Where is the telegram, Tom?"
"In my pocket, sir," said Tom, white as a sheet.
It was found and given to the broker, who turned to Bob and said:
"Please send that off for me, Bob, and if you know of a boy who can make a good messenger send him to me in the morning."
"Hello, Fred! This is the place for you!" and Bob grabbed Fred by the arm and forced him around in front of Tracey. "Here's the one you want, sir–Fred Halsey."