The Coming of Bill

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Mr. Winfield will help you indoors.'

'Thank you, ma'am.'

She turned to Kirk.

'Now, Mr. Winfield.'

Kirk bent over the victim, gripped him, and lifted him like a baby.

'He's got his,' observed one interested spectator.

'I should worry!' agreed another. 'All broken up.'

'Nothing of the kind,' said Mrs. Porter severely. 'The man is hardly

hurt at all. Be more accurate in your remarks.'

She eyed the speaker sternly. He wilted.

'Yes, ma'am,' he mumbled sheepishly.

The policeman, with that lionlike courage which makes the New York

constabulary what it is, endeavoured to assert himself at this point.

'Hey!' he boomed.

Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze.

'I beg your pardon?'

'This won't do, ma'am. I've me report to make. How did this happen?'

'You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile.'

'But......'

'I shall not charge him.'

She turned and followed Kirk.

'But, say......' The policeman's voice was now almost plaintive.

Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman,

having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved his

feelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locust

stick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile's hooter, in

a sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. The

policeman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in the

street.

'Put him to bed,' said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couch

in the studio. 'You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticed

that you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grossly

out of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day.'

'I'm not so young as I was, ma'am,' protested George. 'When I was in

the harmy I was a fine figure of a man.'

'The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,'

commented Mrs. Porter. 'Beer?'

A grateful smile irradiated George's face.

'Thank you, ma'am. It's very kind of you, ma'am. I don't mind if I do.'

'The man appears a perfect imbecile,' said Mrs. Porter, turning

abruptly to Kirk. 'I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to

beer and he babbles.'

'I think he thought you were offering him a drink,' suggested Kirk. 'As

a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn't hurt him, after the shock he

has had.'

'On no account. The worst thing possible.'

'This isn't your lucky day, George,' said Kirk. 'Well, I guess I'll

phone to the doctor.'

'Quite unnecessary.'