Lars made a vain effort to speak. The doctor gave him another sip of restorative and took a pull himself. "Try again, old man. You're badly hurt and you may not get another chance. Did you know him?" Lars gathered all his strength to a broken speech: "No.... Bank ... Found window ... Midnight ... nearly.... Shot me.... Didn't see him." He fell back on Uncle Sam's starry vest. "Ambulance coming," said Uncle Sam. "Will he live, doc?" Doc shook his head doubtfully. "Poor chance. Lost too much blood. If he had been found in time he might have pulled through. Wonderful vitality. Ought to be dead now, by the books. Still, there's a chance." "I never thought," said Uncle Sam to Cyrano de Bergerac, as the ambulance bore away its unconscious burden, "that I would ever be so sorry at anything that could happen to Lars Porsena--after the way he made me stop singing on my own birthday. He was one grand old fighting machine!" CHAPTER VII STATES-GENERAL "And they hae killed Sir Charlie Hay And laid the wyte on Geordie." --_Old Ballad._ That the master's eye is worth two servants had ever been Lake's favorite maxim. He had not yet gone to bed when the message reached him, where he kept his masterly eye on the proper closing up of the ballroom. He came through the crowd now, shouldering his way roughly, still in his police costume--helmet, tunic and belt. In his wake came the sheriff, who had just arrived, scorching to the scene on his trusty wheel. On the bank steps, Lake turned to face the crowd. His strong canine jaw was set to stubborn fighting lines; the helmet did not wholly hide the black frown or the swollen veins at his temple. "Come in, Thompson, and help the sheriff size the thing up--and you, Alec"--he stabbed the air at his choice with a strong blunt finger--"and Turnbull--you, Clarke--and you.... Bassett, you keep the door. Admit no one!" Lake was the local great man. Never had he appeared to such advantage to his admirers; never had his ascendency seemed so unquestioned and so justified. As he stood beside the sheriff in the growing light, the man was the incarnation of power--the power of wealth, position, prestige, success. In this moment of yet unplumbed disaster, taken by surprise, summoned from a night of crowded pleasure, he held his mastery, chose his men and measures with unhesitant decision--planned, ordered, kept to that blunt direct speech of his that wasted no word. A buzz went up from the unadmitted as the door swung shut behind him.