Poor Bog had dreamed a thousand times, by night and by day, of the ineffable bliss of rescuing Pet from a mad dog, from a runaway horse, from the assault of ruffians, from drowning, from a burning building.  He had his plans all laid for doing every one of these things.  He would have coveted the pleasure of whipping three times his weight of any well-dressed, white-handed young men, who should presume to insult her.  In imagination, he had done it times without number; and had contrived a private method to double up a number of effeminate antagonists in succession.  But, in all his reveries, he had never anticipated peril to Miss Minford from a falling board; nor had it occurred to him that the supreme felicity of saving her from death or injury would ever be the lot of anybody else.

The entire novelty of the accident and rescue struck him with amazement, and fastened him to the spot long enough to see that Pet walked away apparently unhurt.  Hardly knowing what he did, or why he did it, he shifted his body behind the awning post so as continually to keep himself out of Pet’s sight.  Then the strong conviction came upon him that it was his duty to escort Pet home; for, although she did not seem to be hurt, she might be.  This conviction was met and almost put down by the thought that Pet would know he had been watching for her; and he could not bear that.  While he was halting and sweating between these two opinions, the unknown young man had finished his little colloquy with the four carpenters, and, by walking fast, had caught up with Pet.

Then the boy Bog decided that his wisest course, under all the circumstances, would be to follow the couple at a distance, and see that no harm came to her from the young man.

“If the feller insults her,” murmured Bog, “just because he was lucky enough to do her a little bit of a kindness, I’ll lick him till he’s blue.”  Besides whipping him for the insults which he might offer, Bog felt that he could give him a few good blows for his impudence in assuming Bog’s exclusive prerogative of rescuing that particular young girl.

Bog looked very sheepish as he sneaked from one street corner to another, and skulked in shadows to avoid observation, though he tried to flatter himself that he was doing something highly meritorious.  Two or three times, when the unknown young man inclined his head toward Pet, as if to speak to her, Bog entertained a hope that she would command him to leave her, and that he wouldn’t.  A single gesture from her, an impatient shrug of the shoulders, a turning away of her head, would have been all the hint that Bog needed to fly to her relief, and make up for his lost opportunity by knocking his dandy rival into the gutter.

But not even Bog’s sharp eyes could detect any impudent familiarity in the young man’s conduct, or any desire on the part of Pet to get rid of him.  “Everything is agin’ me,” said Bog, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.