IN ANOTHER MOMENT HE HAD RAISED THE BOY IN HIS ARMS.
"Ah, go home to your mother wid yer fairy stories," was the cajoling answer, as the officer strove to thrust the youngster back among the by-standers; but all in an instant a lithe young fellow in the uniform of a corporal had sprung from his saddle and rushed to the scene. In another moment he had raised the boy in his arms, and with his burden clinging sobbing at his neck, Fred Wallace came bounding back down the street.
"Hear him, Colonel, oh, hear him!" he cried. "He has come straight from the shops. Jim, my brother, sent him to beg for help. They're mobbing father."
"Sure they fired the shops good fifteen minutes ago. They're all in a blaze," said an officer of police, in a tone of remonstrance. "There's no use going there."
"Who sent the kid?" asked the Inspector, doubtfully. "How do you know this isn't all a fake?"
"It's my brother," cried Fred, nearly mad with impatience and dread. "Oh, for pity's sake, let us go, Colonel! Jim sent you himself, didn't he, Billy?"
"Yes, yes," sobbed the little fellow, "and they were screaming and bursting in the door."
"Who is he, anyhow?" went on the official, still bent on investigation, when the Colonel sharply interposed.
"This is no time for talk. I believe the story. You can see—hear it's true. I demand the right to drive back that mob, or the whole country shall ring with the story of your refusal."
"My goodness, Colonel! I'm not to blame. I've got my orders just as you have. I'm told to use force only as a last extremity, and not to fire at all. You can't scatter that mob without firing."