Many days of fruitless travel and the young men began to despair of success. Quincy was debating with himself whether it would not be better to give up the search for his mother, and follow up the clue about his father. He felt that every day was precious. “I have an idea, Quincy,” Tom said one morning. “Perhaps your mother is quite sick and has gone to a public hospital or a private one of some kind.” “That's a fine idea, Tom. We'll begin on them after breakfast.” The sharp reports of gun shots and the softer cracking of pistols were heard. “What's that?” cried Quincy. “Some men are on a strike. They had trouble with the police last night and this morning's paper says the strikers have thrown up barricades. Probably the police and soldiers are trying to dislodge them.” The firing continued, and from their windows the soldiers and people could be seen moving towards the scene of disturbance. “Let's go out and see what is going on,” said Quincy. “Let's stay in and keep out of trouble,” was Tom's reply. “It is the innocent bystander who always gets shot.” “I'm going down to the office to find out about it,” and Quincy took his hat and left the room. Tom was suspicious of his intentions and followed him. Quincy had left the hotel and was walking rapidly towards the scene of disturbance. Tom ran after him, and kept him in sight, but did not speak to him. At first he felt offended that Quincy had not asked him to go with him. Then he reflected: “I virtually told him in advance that I wouldn't go. He's his own master.” They were nearing a street from which came the sounds of conflict--loud cries, curses, and the reports of firearms. Tom ram forward to prevent Quincy from turning into the street. He was too late--Quincy had turned the corner. Tom, regardless of danger, followed him. He started back with a cry of horror. Quincy had been shot and was lying upon the sidewalk, the blood streaming from a gun-shot wound in his right arm. Tom took him up in his arms, as though he had been a child, and returned to the safety of the unexposed street. As he lay Quincy upon the sidewalk and took out his handkerchief to make a tourniquet with which to stanch the flow of blood, he cried: “Oh, Quincy, why did you walk right into danger?” As he uttered the words, a man who was standing nearby, whose dress and swarthy face proclaimed him to be a foreigner, stepped forward and grasped Tom roughly by the arm. “What did you call that young man,” asked the stranger, his voice trembling, perceptibly. “I called him by his name--Quincy.” “Quincy what? Pardon me, but I have a reason for asking.” “His name is no secret,” said Tom, as he twisted the handkerchief tightly above the wound. “I can't understand your interest in him, but his name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.” “Thank Heaven,” exclaimed the man. “And thank you,” he added, grasping Tom's hand--“Is he English?” “No, we're both Yankees, from Fernborough, Massachusetts.”