Then one of them wheeled upon him. He was the tallest of them all, with fierce little freckled face and flashing black eyes in which all the evil passions of four generations back looked out upon a world that had always been harsh. He was commonly known as fighting Buck. “Mikky’s in dare. He’s hurted. We kids can’t leave Mick alone. He might be dead.” Just at that moment a physician’s runabout drew up to the door, and the policeman fell back to let him pass into the house. Hard upon him followed the bank president in a closed carriage attended by several men in uniform who escorted him to the door and touched their hats politely as he vanished within. Around the corners scowling faces haunted the shadows, and murmured imprecations were scarcely withheld in spite of the mounted officers. A shot was fired down the street, and several policemen hurried away. But through it all the boys stood their ground. “Mikky’s in dare. He’s hurted. I seen him fall. Maybe he’s deaded. We kids want to take him away. Mikky didn’t do nothin’, Mikky jes’ tried to save der little kid. Mikky’s a good’un. You get the folks to put Mikky out here. We kids’ll take him away.” The policeman finally attended to the fierce pleading of the ragamuffins. Two or three newspaper men joined the knot around them and the story was presently written up with all the racy touches that the writers of the hour know how to use. Before night Buck, with his fierce black brows drawn in helpless defiance was adorning the evening papers in various attitudes as the different snapshots portrayed him, and the little group of newsboys and boot-blacks and good-for-nothings that stood around him figured for once in the eyes of the whole city. The small band held their place until forcibly removed. Some of them were barefoot, and stood shivering on the cold stones, their little sickly, grimy faces blue with anxiety and chill. The doctor came out of the house just as the last one, Buck, was being marched off with loud-voiced protest. He eyed the boy, and quickly understood the situation. “Look here!” he called to the officer. “Let me speak to the youngster. He’s a friend, I suppose, of the boy that was shot?” The officer nodded. “Well, boy, what’s all this fuss about?” He looked kindly, keenly into the defiant black eyes of Buck. “Mikky’s hurted—mebbe deaded. I wants to take him away from dare,” he burst forth sullenly. “We kids can’t go off’n’ leave Mikky in dare wid de rich guys. Mikky didn’t do no harm. He’s jes tryin’ to save de kid.” “Mikky. Is that the boy that took the shot in place of the little girl?” The boy nodded and looked anxiously into the kindly face of the doctor. “Yep. Hev you ben in dare? Did youse see Mikky? He’s got yaller hair. Is Mikky deaded?”