The next instant there came a pattering of little feet and two small figures scrambled into the vacant seat in front of Redmond. His gaze fell on a diminutive, red-headed, inquisitive-faced urchin of some eight years, and a small, gray-eyed, wistful-looking maiden, perhaps about a year younger, with hair that matched the boy's in colour. Under one dimpled arm she clutched tightly to her—upside-down—a fat, squirming fox-terrier puppy. Hand-in-hand, in an attitude of breathless, speculative awe, they sat there bolt upright, like two small gophers; watching intently the face of the uniformed representative of the Law, as if seeking some reassuring sign.
It came presently—a kind, boyish, friendly smile that gained the confidence of their little hearts at once.
"Hullo, nippers!" he said cheerily.
"Hullo!" the two small trebles responded.
"What's your name, son?"
"Jerry!"
"Jerry what?"
An uneasy wriggle and a moment's hesitation then—"Jeremiah!" came a small—rather sulky—voice.
Breathing audibly in her intense eagerness the little girl now came to the rescue.
"Please, policeman?" she stopped and gulped excitedly—"please, policeman?—he doesn't like to be called that. . . . It isn't his fault. He always throws stones at the bad boys when they call him that. Call him just 'Jerry.'"