It was a pretty correct account of the rescue of little Fanny Bruce, daughter of George Bruce, of Chicago, and granddaughter of Seymour Atherton, a retired New York stock broker, who had fallen from a Fulton ferryboat into the East River, by a lad of eighteen, named Jack Hazard, who lived at No. 80 —— Street.
“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Ed, with bulging eyes. “Was that really you?”
Jack grinned.
“You never said a word to me about it, and we’ve been standing here half an hour,” said Potter, in an injured tone.
“I didn’t feel like blowing my horn on the subject, and I knew you’d see the account in the paper after you’d gone over the baseball news.”
“Well, I’m blowed if this isn’t a surprise,” said Ed.
“It knocked me all lopsided,” chipped in Wally.
“I s’pose you’ve been interviewed by the reporters like any other great man?” said Ed, with a chuckle.
“I’ve seen one or two.”
“You ought to make a good thing out of this, Jack. The paper says that the old gent is a money-bag,” said Ed, with a twinkle in his eye. “Didn’t he hand you a liberal check?”