"Officers," said the great:
surgeon, "you asked who he is. He's our boy! He's _my_ boy! I never had
a son of my own, but--but--Buckney goes to college next year, and he
goes as my adopted son. This night has shown me what he's made of."
Then, for the first time in all that dreadful night, Miss Connie
gave out. She sat weakly down, crying like a very little child. "Oh,
Buckney!" she sobbed, "they told us not to take a Barnardo boy; that
they were, half of them, just street arabs; that we--we couldn't trust
them. So, sometimes I've been afraid to hope _you_ were all right; and
now you have probably saved my life."
"No 'probably' about it, Miss Connie," said the officer; "he undoubtedly
has saved your life, and the doctor's too. But, come, child, don't cry;
get to bed--there's a good little girl. You've had a bad night of it."
Then, turning to his men, he commanded: "March those two choice
specimens to the police station at once. Well, good-night, doctor!
Good-night, Miss Connie." And looking at Buck he said, curiously,
"Good-night, youngster! So you're a Barnardo boy, eh?"
"Yes, sir," said Buck, lifting his chin a little.
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