Oh, but there were crazy people on Wadsworth’s streets that day—people wild with excitement, telling the story over and over to each other, shaking each other’s hands, repeating this detail or that as though they would never tire of hearing it. And the reporters! Well, the wildest stretch of their imaginations had conceived no such story as this! And they flashed it forth to the four points of the compass, so that, next morning, the whole country read the tale of the heroism of Jack Welsh and his daughter, Mamie. * * * * * It was perhaps, a year afterwards that the postman, one morning, brought a little registered package for John Welsh. Jack chanced to be at home that morning, and opened the package in considerable surprise, for registered packages were not of common occurrence with him. “Why, what’s this?” he said, and held up what appeared to be a medal of gold. “Let’s see it,” said Mary, quickly, and examined it with eager eyes. “Why, look!” she cried. “On one side is a woman holdin’ a wreath, an’ on the other it says ‘To John Welsh, for valour, February 2, 1906.’ It’s from the hayro fund!” she cried. “Jack—” But Jack, looking very red and uncomfortable, had bolted from the house. “I does my work,” he muttered angrily to himself, as he strode up the street, “but I ain’t no hayro, an’ what’s more, I won’t be one! What do they mean by sendin’ me a medal? Confound their impudence, anyway. Why can’t they leave a feller alone? I don’t want their old medal!” But Mary put it carefully away, and it is to this day her dearest treasure, to be shown proudly whenever the story of Jack’s exploit is told—provided, always, that Jack isn’t there! * * * * * And the robbers? Conviction followed, as a matter of course. There could be no doubt of their guilt, and in the end they saw the wisdom of confessing and throwing themselves upon the mercy of the court. The madman was consigned to an asylum for the criminally insane, where he remains to this day, occupying for the most part a straitjacket and a padded cell, for he has never recovered from his lust of blood and instinct to murder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII COMPLICATIONS “WELL, well; wonders will niver cease!” remarked Reddy Magraw, contemplating the newspaper he held in his hand—Reddy safe once more in the bosom of his family, a hero if there ever was one, a czar whose slightest word was law—and, all in all, as true and loyal and honest and warm-hearted an Irishman as ever lived in this world. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Magraw, looking over his shoulder.