Yet he must move; he must get up and walk.  If he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting Dolly’s aunt.  At that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground.  Yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner.  What if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets; and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way.  It was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along.  If he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning.

But if that was true which old Oliver said so often, that the Lord Jesus Christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter’s night about him.  Oh! if he could but feel the hand of Christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face!  Perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick.  It became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, “Oh!  Lord Jesus Christ!  Lord Jesus Christ!”

After uttering this cry Tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm.

“Why,” said a voice he seemed to know, “you’re my young friend of the crossing,—­my little fourpenny-bit, I call you.  What brings you sitting here this cold night?”

“I’ve fell down and hurt myself,” answered Tony, faintly.

“Where?” asked the stranger.

“My leg,” he answered.

The gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along Tony’s leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain.

“Broken!” he said to himself.  “My boy, where’s your home?”

“I haven’t got any right home,” answered Tony, more faintly than before.  He felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking.  The gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position.  Then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where Tony was lying.

[Illustration:  Tony’s accident.]

CHAPTER XIV.