When he reached his own doorstep, badly winded, he saw the automobile coming full tilt up the avenue from Thirty-ninth Street. The rest of the diners were on the steps. “I think he’s coming,” he panted. “The driver must be intoxicated.” A moment later they were treated to the spectacle of Orville, still hurling imprecations as he wildly gesticulated with both arms. Several boys were trying to keep up with the vehicle, but the pace was too swift. No policeman had yet discovered its rotary course. As Orville came near the Marten mansion he cried “Ah-h-h!” in the relieved tones of one who has been falling for half an hour and at last sees ground in sight. “What’s the matter?” shouted Mr. Marten wonderingly, as the carriage, instead of stopping, sped along the roadway. “Sprained foot. Can’t walk. Auto out of order. Can’t stop. Good-by till I come round again. Awful hungry. Merry Christmas!” “Ah ha!” said Joe Burton. “I told you that it was an accident. Sprained his foot and lost power over vehicle. I don’t see the connection, but let us be thankful that he isn’t under the wheels, with a broken neck, or winding round and round the axle.” “But what’s to be done?” said Mrs. Marten. “He says he’s hungry.” “Tell you what!” said Mr. Burton, in his explosive way. “Put some food on a plate, and when the carriage comes round again I’ll jump aboard, and he can eat as he travels.” “He loves purée of celery,” said Mrs. Marten. “Very well. Put some in a clean lard-pail or a milk-pail. Little out of the ordinary, but so is the accident, and he can’t help his hunger. Hunger is no disgrace. I didn’t think he’d ever eat soup again, to tell the truth. I was making up my mind whether a wreath or a harp would be better.” “Oh, you are so morbid, Mr. Burton,” said his wife, while Mrs. Marten told the maid to get a pail and put some purée into it. When Thornton came around again he met Mr. Marten near Thirty-ninth Street. “Open the door, Orville, and Joe Burton will get aboard with some soup. You must be starved.” “There’s nothing like exercise for getting up an appetite. I’ll be ready for Burton,” said Orville, “Awfully sorry I can’t stop and talk; but I’ll see you again in a minute or two.” He opened the door as he spoke, and then, to the great delight of at least a score of people who had realized that the automobile was running away, the rubicund and stout Joe Burton, a pail of purée in one hand and some table cutlery and silverware and a napkin in the other, made a dash at the vehicle, and with help from Orville effected an entrance. [Illustration: He dropped upon his bed, feeling white about the gills] “Merry Christmas!” said Orville.