CHAPTER V

A Desolate Awakening

"You little dunce! Don't you know better than do that?"

An indignant shake accompanied these words, with which the big policeman
set Glory down upon the sidewalk after having rescued her from imminent
death.

In the instant of her slipping from the carriage step, the child had
realized her own peril and would most certainly have been trampled under
the crowding, iron-shod hoofs, had not the officer been on the very
spot, trying to prevent accidents, and to keep clear from each other the
two lines of vehicles, one moving north, the other south.

Glory was so rejoiced to find herself free and unhurt that she minded
neither the shaking nor the term "dunce," but instantly caught the
rescuer's hand and kissed it rapturously, crying, "Oh, thank you, thank
you! Grandpa would have felt so bad if I'd been hurt like that poor
blind man. Oh, I wish I could do somethin' for you, you dear, splendid
p'liceman!"

"Well, you can. You can remember that a young one's place is at home,
not in the middle of the street. There, that will do. Be off with you
and never cut up such a caper again, long's you live. It would have been
'all day' with you, if I hadn't been just where I was, and two accidents
within five minutes is more'n I bargain for. Be off!"

Releasing his hand, he returned to his task among the wagons but carried
with him a pleasant memory of a smile that was so grateful and so gay;
while Glory, subdued by what she had gone through, slowly resumed her
search for her missing grandfather. Away down to the South ferry she
paced, looking and listening everywhere. Then back again on the other
side of the long street till she had reached the point nearest to Elbow
Lane and still no sign of a blue-coated old man or a little dog with a
stub of a tail and but one good ear.

"Well, it's nigh night now, an' he'll be comin' home. Most the folks
what gives him pennies or buys his frames has left Broadway so I might
as well go myself. Come to think, I guess I better not tell grandpa
'bout that poor hurted man. Might make him 'fraid to go round himself
with nobody 'cept Bo'sn to take care of him an' him a dog. An' oh, dear!
Whatever shall I do for sewin' things, now I didn't get no goober money?
Well, anyway, there's that nickel o' Jane's will buy a chop for his
supper an' I best hurry get it ready. He's always so terrible hungry
when he comes off his 'beat.' An' me--why, I b'lieve I hain'