noon
As though he were working for the woman he loved -- doing what she would have done -- he knelt beside the wounded man , wiped the blood and grime from his cheeks with his own handkerchief , loosening his coat , rubbing his hands , murmuring `` Old fellow , '' `` Dear John '' : there was no time for other interchange of speech . When at last Grant was on his feet the two men barricaded the doors more strongly , rolling heavy barrels against them , the sounds from the street seeming to indicate that an attack might be made upon them . But the mob had swept on and forgotten them , as mobs often do , while the fugitives waited , hardly daring to speak except in detached whispers , lest some one of the inmates of the warehouse overhead might hear them . Toward noon a low tap was heard at the window , which was level with an alley in the rear , and a man 's hand was thrust through a broken pane . Oliver pressed Grant 's arm , laid his finger on his lips , caught up a heavy hammer lying on an oil-barrel , crept noiselessly along the wall toward the sound , and stopped to listen . Then he heard his name called in a hoarse whisper . `` Marse Ollie !