A woman rushed up, caught the boy in her arms, and sank on her
knees. The man reeled and fell.
. . . . . . .
When Carl regained consciousness, Jennie was bending over him,
chafing his hands and bathing his face. Patsy was on the sofa,
wrapped in Jennie's shawl. Pop was fanning him. Carl's wet
handkerchief, the old man said, had kept the boy from suffocating.
The crowd had begun to disperse. The neighbors and strangers had
gone their several ways. The tenement-house mob were on the road
to their beds. Many friends had stopped to sympathize, and even
the bitterest of Tom's enemies said they were glad it was no
worse.
When the last of them had left the yard, Tom, tired out with
anxiety and hard work, threw herself down on the porch. The
morning was already breaking, the gray streaks of dawn brightening
the east. From her seat she could hear through the open door the
soothing tones of Jennie's voice as she talked to her lover, and
the hoarse whispers of Carl in reply. He had recovered his breath
again, and was but little worse for his scorching, except in his
speech. Jennie was in the kitchen making some coffee for the
exhausted workers, and he was helping her.
Tom realized fully all that had happened. She knew who had saved
Patsy's life.
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