Those who watched without marvelled how soon he returned; and when they perceived that he bore in his arms a living creature, even Driver’s Court swayed back to let him pass, and cheered him. Happily a cry of “Engines!” at the other end of the court diverted the crowd still further, and enabled him to stagger forward clear of danger.
“Drop him, he’s a dead ’un!” shouted some one who stopped a moment to peer into the face of the senseless lad.
“I’ll give you a shilling to help me with him out of this,” said Jeffreys.
It was a shilling well spent. Unaided he could never have done it, but with the sturdy gladiator to clear the way he was able at last to reach the comparative seclusion of Storr Alley. The offer of another shilling prevailed on the man to carry the lad to the attic.
Then for the first time left to himself, he looked in the face of this unexpected guest. And as he did so the room seemed to swim round him. He forgot where he was or what he was. He looked down on an upturned face, but one not blackened with smoke. It was white and livid, with green grass for a background—and the roar he heard was no longer the distant yell of a panic-stricken mob, but boys’ voices—voices shouting at himself! Yes, for the last time that vision rose before him. Then with a mighty effort he shook off the dream and looked once more in the face of the boy who lay there on the floor of the Storr Alley garret. And as he did so young Forrester slowly opened his eyes.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Come Back.
Raby had come home with a strange story from Storr Alley that afternoon. She was not much given to romance, but to her there was something pathetic about this man “John” and his unceremonious adoption of those orphan children. She had not seen anything exactly like it, and it moved both her admiration and her curiosity.