"Oh, you little rascal! I've caught you at last! Come along home with me," and he grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulder.
It was Danny's uncle. "You've got fine clothes, and are with a fine lady, while your poor old uncle who had always given you a good honest home is starving," he exclaimed.
Some men who had been lounging about the corner ran up, and Cahill declared over and over to them that his boy had run away from an honest home, and should be taken back and help to support his old uncle, who was sick.
Danny, who had a notion that his uncle really had some sort of right over him, was sick and disheartened at the prospect of going back to his old life, but he had had his liberty too long to be willing to give it up without a struggle. He was a stout youngster; his constant exercise as a messenger-boy kept him in good physical condition, and he made a good resistance to his uncle's efforts to drag him away.
As he was struggling, Miss Barstow ran to him and asked, "Is this the man you told me of—your uncle?"
"Sure; dis is de mug, and he's no good," Danny answered, as he fought.
"Let that boy go," she said to Cahill, sternly.
"Not for you," responded Cahill, surlily.
Miss Barstow stepped to where the light fell on her face, and turning to the crowd of men, said: "Some of you must know me. I want you to make that man let this boy go."
"It's Miss Barstow," one of the men exclaimed. Then he added, "What you say goes down here, lady, mostly, but not in this case. Cahill has a right to the boy's wages. He's a good man, and the kid ain't going to get no harm by going along with him."