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George Washington Jones was his name. Where he got it nobody knew,—least of all himself. For two years he had sold newspapers one block from the big St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans. Very slender, with great big hungry eyes, this little colored waif presented a pitiful sight to the crowds that hurried by. He was scorned by the other newsboys, who yelled and jeered at him, causing him to shrink up even smaller and to glance fearfully at his tormentors, for George was what the other boys called a coward. He would not fight,—when attacked and imposed upon by his more sturdy associates he would throw up his hands and cower down against the ground like a whipped dog. All boys know what this means,—for months he was the mark for all of the coarse jokes and abuse of the rather rough lot of boys who were also engaged in the newspaper selling business thereabouts. He had lived ever since he remembered with an old colored man in a wretched attic over on the South Side,—the old man was a rag peddler and permitted him to share his miserable quarters for the payment of fifty cents every Saturday night. Poor food and poorer sleeping quarters had their effect, and George soon developed a hacking cough that made people turn their heads to see who it was and then hurry on faster than ever. One cold morning in December, while George stood shivering on his corner, scarcely able to shout loud enough to attract the attention of the passers by, a lady about to enter an automobile glanced at him, noted pityingly his emaciated and half-starved appearance, and the cough that wracked his slight frame,—she stepped up and asked him his name and address, which he gave, gazing in spell-bound admiration at this beautiful, fairy-like creature from a different world.

It so happened that this young lady’s father was a very influential man, and so in course of time the lady who had in the meantime called several times at George’s wretched quarters, with eggs and milk and other dainties, prevailed upon him to arrange for George to spend the spring and summer in the country.

So one bright day in April, George arrived at a big Louisiana plantation where he was to have good food and clothes, and when able, to do odd jobs and chores about the place to pay for his board. The Grahams were a couple who had been married seven or eight years and who had a little daughter of six who was a dainty and pretty little miss, somewhat spoiled, but naturally kind and good-hearted. To George she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, an angel, not to be thought of at the same time with earthly things. He soon became her devoted slave, following her about and trying to think of something he could do that would make her happy.

Now George did not change in the first few weeks of his stay with the Grahams. He was afraid of the cows, of the horses, even of the geese that ran around the yard. Little Louise, who had been raised in the country, could not understand this feeling and did not hesitate to let George know that she had nothing but contempt for his running wildly away from an inoffensive cow who happened to turn her head in his direction.

“But, dearest,” her mother said, “he has never even seen a cow before. To him that cow is only an awfully dangerous thing with horns, a long tail and big mouth.”

“Oh, but mamma, he is such an awful fraid cat,—whoever heard of getting scared at a lot of silly geese?”

“Yes, I fear he is a hopeless coward,” said Mrs. Graham, “but he certainly does work well.”

But the one thing that George feared above all other things was the dog that lived on the Evans place next door. There was considerable excuse for this fear, as the dog was a surly and somewhat dangerous brute, an immense Great Dane, who had no love nor respect for any living thing except his master. He seemed to take a savage delight in dashing to the fence and making strenuous efforts to jump over and attack poor George whenever he had to pass by. On such occasions, George would shriek and dash wildly up the road, screaming in terror,—he feared the Great Dane more than anything else on earth.

The days and weeks slipped by until the month of August. There had been a long dry spell; everything was hot, parched and burning up, and it seemed as if the earth was crying out for rain. Every one was cross and irritable and although not meaning to be unreasonable, Mr. and Mrs. Graham took considerable of their irritation out on our little colored friend George,—he was ordered about and shouted at to move faster and scolded and generally made the target for the ill humor of the entire household.

For some days the Great Dane had been acting strangely,—no one dared to approach him, and on one occasion he even snapped at his master.

“Guess I’ll chain him up until the rain sets in,” said Mr. Evans. However, the dog refused to be tied, avoiding his master and snapping whenever he approached. Suddenly he gave a roar and sprang right at Mr. Evans’ throat,—the man tripped and fell, which was the best thing he could possibly have done under the circumstances, as the dog ignored him, and, snapping right and left, dashed out of the gate and down the road towards the Graham place.

“Great Heavens! The brute is mad!” gasped Evans.

If any one has seen a dog go mad, he will testify that it is not a pretty sight. The maddened animal raced at top speed along the road, snapping wildly at sticks and stones along the way, with froth and foam flying from his mouth, his mammoth jaws closing and unclosing like the teeth of an enormous trap.

Straight down the road and straight through the gate that opened into the Graham yard dashed the enormous Great Dane—he was a hideous sight to the bravest; what he looked like to George no one will ever know. Graham, sitting on the porch, realized in an instant what had happened, and sprang to the dining-room to get his rifle,—right in the path was little Louise, with her dolls, sitting around a little table, in the midst of a party—she rose to her feet, the great frenzied brute but a few yards distant, her face paling, her lips unable to utter a sound. Graham was quick, but not quick enough,—the dog would be upon the child before he could possibly get ready to shoot, but quicker than Graham, quicker than the dog, was George,—what he felt, what he suffered in those few seconds, the Lord alone can tell—with a wild scream, he threw himself right in the path of the maddened Great Dane, right at his throat, shrieking and striking wildly with both clenched fists at the huge head and body of the dog. With a snarl, the dog turned and caught the negro boy,—but it was here that Providence took a hand, for he grabbed not George himself, but his coat, worn and shabby from much use, and the coat came off in his jaws,—before the dog could turn and renew the attack, Mr. Graham shot twice rapidly from the porch and the dog fell, writhing terribly in his death agonies.

White as a sheet, Graham ran quickly down the path and snatched Louise up in his arms,—but Mrs. Graham, who had been an agonized eyewitness of the near-tragedy, was almost as quick to reach George—throwing her arms around him, she sobbed, “God bless you, George; that was the bravest thing I ever saw.”

And in this way, George, the despised and ignored newsboy, who had always been called a coward, came into his own. Such is true courage. Poor boy, he was afraid, fearfully, awfully afraid! But he did not hesitate to risk everything to save the golden-haired little daughter of his employer.

George still remains on the Graham plantation, but you would scarcely know him—he coughs no longer; he stands erect and is becoming strong and sturdy; he has found himself, and no one will ever again have cause to say to him, “You coward!”