As he lay Quincy upon the sidewalk and took out his handkerchief to
make a tourniquet with which to stanch the flow of blood, he cried:
"Oh, Quincy, why did you walk right into danger?"
As he uttered the words, a man who was standing nearby, whose dress
and swarthy face proclaimed him to be a foreigner, stepped forward
and grasped Tom roughly by the arm.
"What did you call that young man," asked the stranger, his voice
trembling, perceptibly.
"I called him by his name--Quincy."
"Quincy what? Pardon me, but I have a reason for asking."
"His name is no secret," said Tom, as he twisted the handkerchief
tightly above the wound. "I can't understand your interest in him,
but his name is Quincy Adams Sawyer."
"Thank Heaven," exclaimed the man. "And thank you," he added,
grasping Tom's hand--"Is he English?"
"No, we're both Yankees, from Fernborough, Massachusetts."
The man knelt beside Quincy and gazed at him earnestly. He looked up
at Tom.
"I could bless the man who fired that shot. My name is Quincy Adams
Sawyer and this young man is my son!"
Tom's surmise had been correct. Alice did not improve and a long stay
at the Hospital became necessary before the return to England would
be possible.
"What's that noise, Babette?" asked Alice.
"There must be a riot somewhere," was the reply. "The soldiers are
marching past.
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