The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child.  So truly had he judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck.  Reaching out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he stood.  As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it was Holden.

The position of the two was still one of danger.  A false step, the separating of the ice, the yielding of a cake might precipitate both into the torrent.  But the heart of the man had never felt the emotion of fear.  He cast his eyes deliberately round, and with a prompt decision took his course.  Raising the rescued child in his arms, he 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 much, but I guess it’ll do old Davenport good.”

Holden, according to his custom, seemed indisposed to enter into conversation with those around him, or to accept the civilities tendered, and started off as soon as possible, upon his solitary way.  As he emerged from the crowd, he caught sight of the advancing figures of Faith and of her companions, who had more leisurely approached, and stopped to greet them.  From them he seemed to receive with pleasure the congratulations showered upon him, though he disclaimed all merit for himself.