Whenever the young man
pressed closer to the gate, the crowd would fall back as if to
give him room. Now and then one would come up, grab his well hand
and pat his shoulder approvingly. He seemed to be as much an
object of interest as the daughter of the injured boss.
When Ruth gained the gate the wounded man laid his fingers on her
gloved wrist. The girl started back, peered into his face, and
uttered a cry of relief.
"Mr. Breen!" For one wild moment a spirit of overwhelming joy
welled up in her heart and shone out of her eyes. Thank God he was
not dead!
"Yes, Miss Ruth,--what is left of me. I wanted to see you as soon
as you reached here. You must not be alarmed about your father."
The voice did not sound like Jack's.
"Is he worse? Tell me quick!" she exclaimed, the old fear
confronting her.
"No. He is all right," he wheezed, "and is going to get well. His
left arm is broken and his head badly cut, but he is out of
danger. The doctor told me so an hour ago."
"And you?" she pleaded, clinging to his proffered hand.
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