A reckless cabby, driving as only a French cabman can, came dashing
down the boulevard directly in her path, while a heavily loaded omnibus
going in the opposite direction was trying to get out of his way. Ever
so many people screamed; and some one pulled Mr. King back as he
started to pick her up. It was all done in an instant, and every person
expected to see her killed, when a long, gaunt individual in a shabby
coat dashed in among the plunging horses, knocked up the head of the
one belonging to the reckless cabby, swung an arm at the other pair to
divert their course, and before any one could quite tell how, he picked
up Phronsie and bore her to the curbstone. Some one got Mr. King to the
same point, too exhausted with fright to utter a word.
When he came out of his shock, the shabby man was standing by Phronsie,
the crowd that saw nothing in the incident to promise further
diversion, having melted away, and she was holding his hand, her
little, mud-stained face radiant with happiness. "Oh, Grandpapa," she
piped out, "it's your poor man!"
"The dickens it is!" exploded Mr. King. "Well, I'm glad to find you.
Here, call a cab, will you? I must get this child home; that's the
first thing to be done."
The shabby man hailed a cab, but the cabman jeered at him and whirled
by. So the old gentleman held up his hand; Phronsie all this time,
strange to say, not mentioning her doll, and Mr.
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