Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1911)

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» * MIKE THE MISER * By Margarer H. MacCulloch a NUMBEK Seven, Bleecker Street. "This is the place.'' "Third flight, back? Thanks. Yes, an accident." "It's the Delaney girl." "Hard luck, that; her man brought home dead last month, and now the kid." "And how sot she was on that child." "Sho ! Dat am a hoodoo fambly." The crowd had gathered at the door of number seven. "Get out of the way, can't you?" Moving thru the throng, an officer was carrying a limp little figure in his arms. ■ He paused at the door of the tenement, reluctant to be the messenger of death twice in so brief a time. Up the stairs he bore the little one and paused at the third landing. Mrs. Delaney, fearful of every new sound in the street since her husband had been killed, was at the door to see what the noise was about. Brave little woman tho she was, this new grief overpowered her. "My little girl! Is she dead?" she cried hysterically. "Oh, God, not dead ! Ob, save her for me — save my precious baby." "We've sent for the ambulance, ma'am," said the officer, pityingly. "The folks at the hospital are good, they'll do their best. Don't give up hope." The ambulance bell clanged thru the street, the doctor carried the little one gently in his arms, the mother following, silently, to the door. The always curious crowd in the street parted respectfully to make way. If curious, the street crowd is also sympathetic. It was a long, sleepless night for the stricken mother, longing for news, yet shivering with dread at every approaching foot-fall, but in the morning hope dawned. The first arrival at the hospital was the one who, since his father's death, had not only been the support and comfort of the mother, but the good-hearted playfellow of the child, — her little big brother, Mike. This second disaster had sobered him into a man. There had been a boyish pride, after his father died, in being able to earn money for his mother ; but that his little sister should be lying still and white, and unable to move, was a cruel fact that was still more impressive. "What's to be done, doctor? Can't she come home? Wont she get well? Can't I do anything?" inquired little Mike, anxiously, all in one breath. "My boy," said the doctor, kindly, "last night we had little hope; this morning there is a chance. Go home and tell your mother I will send her word after the crisis has past. If your sister sleeps till noon, she may live." The urchin turned away with a heavy heart; and, as he hurried along home, he rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, for the sun seemed to dazzle him. But perhaps it was not the sun, after all, that brought tears to those eyes. He tried to blink them back. Xo, the bread winner of the family must not cry. He must be brave — braver than ever, now. For hours they waited. Was it to be a message of jov, or a message of death ? At last, a messenger from the hospital brought a note. "Your child will live," read the message. "The crisis is past, but an 109