From my place at the bedside I could look through an open door into the sitting-room. There were easy-chairs and a writing-table and a general air of man-comfort. Among the pictures on the walls was one of a stately group of college buildings; another was a class picture taken with a church, or perhaps it was the college chapel, for a background. When the hour was about up, the man on the bed began to stir and show signs that he was coming out of the unconscious fit. Pretty soon he opened his eyes and asked, in a liquor-thickened voice, where he was. I told him he had had an accident and was in the hands of his friends; and at that he dropped off to sleep, and was still sleeping when a farm wagon stopped at the cottage gate and the Good Samaritan came in. His search had been successful. Our broken-winged bird was a young farmer living a few miles out of town. The young minister had found his team, and a friend to drive it, and both friend and team were at the gate ready to take the battered one home. With the help of the volunteer driver we got the young farmer up and out and into the wagon; and there the Samaritan outreaching ended--or I supposed it was ended. But as a matter of fact, it was merely transferring itself to me. As I was moving off to resume my interrupted dash for the railroad station, Whitley--I read his name on the notice board of the near-by church--stopped me. "What's your hurry?" he asked; adding: "I haven't had time to get acquainted with you yet." I answered briefly that I was leaving town, and this brought the questioner's watch out of his pocket. "There is no train in either direction before nine o'clock this evening," he demurred. And then: "It is nearly six now: if you haven't anything better to do, why not stay and take dinner with me? I'm a lone bachelor-man, and I'd be mighty glad of your company." The wagon had driven off and the street was empty. I looked my potential host squarely in the eyes and said the first thing that came uppermost. "I have just been discharged from Mr. Haddon's store--for what Mr. Haddon considers to be good and sufficient cause. I don't believe you want me at your dinner-table." His smile was as refreshing as a cool breeze on a hot summer day. "I don't care what Mr. Haddon has said or done to you. If you can't give any better reason than that----" "But I can," I interposed. "I am a paroled convict." Without another word he opened the gate and drew me inside with an arm linked in mine. And he didn't speak again until he had planted me in the easiest of the big chairs before the grate fire in the cozy sitting-room, and had found a couple of pipes, filling one for me and the other for himself. "Now, then, tell me all about it," he commanded, "You are having plenty of trouble; your face says that much. Begin back a bit and let it lead up to Mr. Zadoc Haddon as a climax, if you wish."