Peter named the two. "They wouldn't testify," he explained, "and I couldn't. Old Orrick was the only man I spotted. He will get punished for assault. I don't see that they've got a case against British. He was knocked out when the porch fell, and he hadn't done a thing then, except yell probably. You can't hang a man for yelling in this State." "No. Did you--you--was anybody killed?" "Bless your heart, no!" cried Peter. "Why, it was only a little old kicking-match and hair-pulling, you know, hardly worse than a college rush." Varney looked suddenly and strangely relieved. "I'm mighty glad to hear that," he said, and presently added: "Have you seen--Smith?" "Smith! He went to New York some days ago. I remember--it was the very day you pulled up and got well. Why, what about him?" "Didn't you know? He was there that night," said Varney. "Right in the thick of it, helping me." "Helping _you_! Smith!" Varney nodded. "The minute they closed in on me," he said after a moment, "and we all bunched together, I felt that there was somebody in there fighting on my side. Pretty soon I heard a voice in my ear, it said: '_Keep on your pins as long as you can: these dogs'll trample you if they get you down_.' I said, 'Is that you, Smith?' and he laughed and said, '_Still on my studies_.' Then somebody hit me over the head with something, and I went down and he went with me. He had one arm around me, I remember. I've been thinking, ever since I could think at all, that they might--might have finished him. I believe he saved my life, Smith did." "Well--bully for him!" said Peter slowly, much impressed. "What on earth struck him to do that, do you suppose? Well, well! I'll certainly look that old boy up in New York and shake him by the hand." There was a considerable silence. At just the moment when Varney was about to put another question, Peter opened his mouth and answered it. "However," he said, an irrepressible note of irritation creeping into his honest voice, "even that was not the strangest thing that happened that night. Not by a long shot." Varney's gaze fixed with sudden interest. "Higginson? You don't mean to say that he turned up?" "I do. And got away with it again--confound his soul!" "What happened? Any more dirty work? Did anything get into the papers?" "No--oh, no! You've got that sized up wrong, Larry. He's no yellow journalist or anything like that. He's only the slickest underground worker this town ever saw--with his confounded apologetic, worried-looking mask of a face. As for more dirty work--well, I guess the bloodshed the other night scared him up so--" "But go on and tell me! Where'd you see him? What did you say and--" "Sitting in our front parlor, if you please, like a dear old friend of the family." The remembrance of the way he had been affronted and outwitted chafed Peter's spirit uncontrollably. He rose and began pacing up and down the little porch, hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.