started in the direction of the wharf, built just below the narrow
opening. Springing with great agility and strength over the blocks,
selecting for footing those cakes which seemed thickest and fastened
in firmest, he made his way over the barrier and bounded safely on
the land. The spectators, seeing the direction he was taking, had run
down, many of them, to the place, and were waiting to receive them.

"I vow," said our friend, Tom Gladding, who was among the first to
welcome Holden, "if it ain't little Jim Davenport. Why, Jim, you come
pretty nigh gitting a ducking."

"Yes," said the boy, carelessly, as if he had been engaged in a
frolic, "I wet my shoes some, and the lower part of my trousers."

Here a man came hastening through the crowd, for whom all made way. It
was Mr. Davenport. He had been, like the rest, a witness of the danger
and the rescue, but knew not that it was his own son who had made the
perilous passage. But a report, running as if by magic from one to
another, had reached his ears, and he was now hurrying to discover
its truth. It was, indeed, his son, and Holden was his preserver.
He advanced to the boy, and examined him from head to foot, as if
to assure himself of his safety before he spoke a word. Shaking with
agitation, he then turned to Holden, and grasping his hand, wrung it
convulsively.

"May God forget me, Mr. Holden," he stammered, in a broken voice,
"if I forget this service," and taking the boy by the hand he led him
home.

"Well," said Gladding, who had been looking on, "Jim don't mind it