He opened his eyes presently to find himself supported by two men. Every passenger in the crowded car, which had stopped, was staring at him. A crowd of pedestrians had also stopped to see what had happened. He looked dazedly at the two men who were supporting him. One was the car-conductor, whose eyes expressed fear and disgust. The other man’s appearance was in some degree familiar to Baron. He was gigantic, ruddy, wholly self-possessed. Baron wondered who this man was, and then, as his gaze roved weakly from point to point, he saw a red beer-dray--and he knew. This was the beer-driver whom he and Bonnie May had watched and discussed one day from the attic window. “He’s all right,” declared the beer-driver, getting a firmer grip on Baron’s arm. Baron was greatly relieved to hear that he was “all right.” He had his doubts. The back of his head seemed to be asleep, and there was a horrible pain in his left leg when he tried to touch the pavement with his foot. “I’ll want your name and address, and the names of witnesses,” said the conductor. He had produced a little note-book. “You don’t need them,” declared Baron. “It was my own fault. I don’t want to be detained here.” “But the rules require--” said the conductor. “Just forget the rules,” advised the beer-driver, who perceived that Baron meant what he said. And in an instant Baron was feeling a new sort of embarrassment, because the ruddy giant of the beer-dray had picked him up in his arms, and was taking long strides in the direction of his dray. “Out of the way!” he ordered, and people obeyed. Baron had the helpless sensation of one who rides on an elephant. He thought he realized now just what it must be to perform the tasks of a mahout. “Though I don’t seem to need an ankus--yet,” he meditated. Baron had read his Kipling. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, speaking in a general downward direction. “You’re not troubling me,” came back the answer. The driver had reached his dray, and greatly to Baron’s amazement, he put a foot on the hub of the wheel, a disengaged hand on the iron bar surrounding the back of the seat, and had vaulted into a sitting posture, carrying his burden with him. It seemed to Baron that he had been swung through limitless space, as if he had been a star, held to its place by gravity. He held his hat in place, as he might have done if a cyclone had seized him in its clutch. And with such attention as he could command he was observing the performance of the driver. “Sit down,” commanded that individual: needlessly, for already Baron was by his side, holding on to the iron bar at the back of the seat, and feeling uncomfortably light and dizzy. His companion looked into his eyes. “A pretty hard jolt,” he said, thrusting a protecting arm about his charge. “Gee-app!” He pulled the reins dexterously with the aid of thumb and little finger, and the horses began to move.