One day he was going across the street to make change for a customer,
when a stylish carriage came dashing along. The horses shied at some
object, and the pole of the carriage struck Arch and knocked him down.
The driver drew in the horses with an imprecation.
Arch picked himself up, and stood recovering his scattered senses,
leaning against a lamp-post.
"Served ye right!" said the coachman roughly. "You'd no business to be
running befront of folkses carriages."
"Stop!" said a clear voice inside the coach. "What has occurred, Peter?"
"Only a ragged boy knocked down; but he's up again all right. Shall
I drive on? You will be late to the concert."
"I shall survive it, if I am," said the voice. "Get down and open the
door. I must see if the child is hurt."
"It's no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself," said the man,
surlily obeying the command.
Margie Harrison descended to the pavement. From the sweet voice, Arch had
almost expected to see _her_. A flush of grateful admiration lit up his
face. She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, kindly. "It was very careless of Peter to let
the carriage strike you. Allow us to take you home."
"Thank you," he said. "I am close to where I work, and I am not hurt.
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