“Sure and we will, my bucko,” exclaimed one of them. “That was the nerviest thing I ever seen done, and I used to work on a cattle ranch before I went on the cops.”
“Youngster, you’re all right and a credit to the uniform you wear,” chimed in the other as he dismounted.
“Never mind that,” Ned hastened to say, as the crowd began to show symptoms of wanting to join in all this well-earned praise, “this young lady needs immediate attention.”
“You can bring her right in here. My living rooms are in the rear of the store,” said a motherly-looking woman who had come out of a soda-water store near by.
“Sure, that’s the best way, Mrs. Jones,” agreed one of the policemen. “Clear the way there, will you?” he added to the crowd, as the unconscious form of the young girl was carried into the store and laid on a lounge in the rear. There she was left to the care of Mrs. Jones and the people turned their attention to the boys.
“Well, that’s over. Come on, Herc, let’s get out of this,” said Ned hastily. “I feel like a fool.”
For a modest lad like Ned it was indeed an ordeal to be called openly “a hero” and “the nerviest lad in ’Frisco,” and half a hundred other adulatory names. The compliments came from the hearts of enthusiastic witnesses of his nervy rescue, but they only embarrassed the Dreadnought Boy and he was anxious to get away.
“She’ll be all right in a few minutes. Only a faint, but if it hadn’t been for you it might have been something worse,” said one of the policemen, coming out of the store where the girl had been carried; “and now you’ll need some fixing up yourself, young fellow. You look like you’d been through a cyclone.”
In truth, Ned did present a disreputable appearance. His uniform was torn, his face was bruised and scratched, and his cap was missing.
“Oh, I’m all right,” he replied hastily. “There’s a street car. Come on, Herc, we’ll catch it and get fixed up down town.”