Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished | Page 4

her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.
At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable Number 666--we are not quite sure of what division--in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. He was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in England!
Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer, for Di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming--
"Oh! I have killed him! I've killed him!" and burst into tears.
"No, my little lady," said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, "you've not quite done for me, though you've come nearer the mark than any man has ever yet accomplished. Come, now, what can I do for you? You're not hurt, I hope?"
This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident.
"Hurt? oh! no, I'm not hurt," exclaimed Di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of Number 666; "but I'm quite sure you must be hurt--awfully. I'm so sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn't mean to knock you down."
This also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while Number 666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least--only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone.
"Wot does she mean by knockin' of 'im down?" asked a small butcher's boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker's boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning.
"She means wot she says," replied the small baker's boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, "she knocked the constable down."
"Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?--walk-er!"
"Very good; you've no call to b'lieve it unless you like," replied the baker's boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, "but she did it, though--an' that's six month with 'ard labour, if it ain't five year."
At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. He was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic.
"My child! my darling! my dear Di!" he gasped.
"Papa!" responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug.
"Oh! I say," whispered the small butcher, "it's a melly-drammy--all for nuffin!"
"My!" responded the small baker, with a solemn look, "won't the Lord left-tenant be down on 'em for play-actin' without a licence, just!"
"Is the pony killed?" inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself.
"Not in the least, sir. 'Ere 'e is, sir; all alive an' kickin'," answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, "but the hinsurance offices wouldn't 'ave the clo'se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains of your carriage, sir?"
"Oh! I'm so glad he's not dead," said Diana, looking hastily up, "but this policeman was nearly killed, and I did it! He saved my life, papa."
A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom.
"I am deeply grateful to you," said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might say, involuntarily.
"Will you come to my house?" said Sir Richard. "Here is my card. I should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and--"
"And the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard hesitated.
"Be so good as to call a cab," said Sir Richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey.
"Here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time.
Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.
Thus curiously were introduced