"Well, I don't know but what you may," said Grandpapa, relenting. "I will call a cab after we get through with this next shop," he reflected, "and it won't hurt her to carry the doll that short distance." So they came out of the shop, and deciding to take a short cut, they started across the boulevard, he taking the usual precaution to gather Phronsie's hand in his.
As they were halfway across the street, with its constant stream of pedestrians and vehicles, a sudden gust of wind flapped the doll's pink silk cape up against Phronsie's eyes, and taking her hand away from Grandpapa's a second to pull down the cape, for she couldn't see, she slipped, and before she knew it, had fallen on top of the doll in the middle of the street.
A reckless cabby, driving as only a French cabman can, came dashing down the boulevard directly in her path, while a heavily loaded omnibus going in the opposite direction was trying to get out of his way. Ever so many people screamed; and some one pulled Mr. King back as he started to pick her up. It was all done in an instant, and every person expected to see her killed, when a long, gaunt individual in a shabby coat dashed in among the plunging horses, knocked up the head of the one belonging to the reckless cabby, swung an arm at the other pair to divert their course, and before any one could quite tell how, he picked up Phronsie and bore her to the curbstone. Some one got Mr. King to the same point, too exhausted with fright to utter a word.
When he came out of his shock, the shabby man was standing by Phronsie, the crowd that saw nothing in the incident to promise further diversion, having melted away, and she was holding his hand, her little, mud-stained face radiant with happiness. "Oh, Grandpapa," she piped out, "it's your poor man!"
"The dickens it is!" exploded Mr. King. "Well, I'm glad to find you. Here, call a cab, will you? I must get this child home; that's the first thing to be done."
The shabby man hailed a cab, but the cabman jeered at him and whirled by. So the old gentleman held up his hand; Phronsie all this time, strange to say, not mentioning her doll, and Mr. King, who wouldn't have cared if a hundred dolls had been left behind, not giving it a thought. Now she looked anxiously on all sides. "Oh, where is she, Grandpapa dear?" she wailed, "my child; where is she?"
"Never mind, Phronsie," cried Mr. King, "I'll get you another one to-morrow. There, get in the cab, child."
"But I want her—I can't go home without my child!" And Phronsie's lip began to quiver. "Oh, there she is, Grandpapa!" and she darted off a few steps, where somebody had set the poor thing on the pavement, propped up against a lamp-post.
"Oh, you can't carry her home," said Mr. King, in dismay at the muddy object splashed from head to foot, with the smart pink cape that had been the cause of the disaster, now torn clear through the middle, by the hoof of a passing horse. He shuddered at the sight of it. "Do leave it, Phronsie, child."
"But she's sick now and hurt; oh, Grandpapa, I can't leave my child," sobbed Phronsie, trying with all her might to keep the tears back. All this time the shabby man stood silently by, looking on.