Miss Ronald said “No--o,” and was not sure that they had better go to the theatre, but she did not wish to go to any of her friends and tell them of her rather ridiculous predicament, and there was nothing for it but to consent to the theatre plan. So Cunningham called for the bill and they strolled slowly up to the theatre to kill time. They took seats far back so as to be able to escape easily. “Sheridan” is a very pretty play, as everyone knows, but Cunningham felt so responsible for the girl that he was much too nervous properly to appreciate it. He saw, however, that Miss Ronald was enjoying herself very much, and he decided to stay till the last moment, but kept his watch open in his hand for fear of running over the time. He knew they could get to Kneeland Street in seven or eight minutes with a cab, and so, at exactly fifteen minutes after nine, he arose and told Miss Ronald it was time to go. They wasted a few moments getting out, and then Cunningham called a cab and told the driver to go to the Boston and Albany station as fast as he could. It may have been these unfortunate directions, or it may have been Fate--at any rate, at the corner of Washington and Essex Streets there was a sudden commotion and noise; Cunningham and Miss Ronald felt a terrible jolt, and a great many people seemed to have sprung suddenly out of the earth and to be asking them if they were hurt. As they were not at all hurt they were rather indignant, and Cunningham jumped impatiently out of the cab to see what all the fuss was about. He was not long in ignorance. The horse lay on its side with a broken shaft sticking up and the harness half off him. The coachman was swearing impartially at the people about him, and an ice-wagon with which the cab had collided stood by unhurt, the driver of it in a hopeless state of intoxication and wrath. Cunningham looked anxiously around him, and to his consternation not another cab was in sight. There seemed to be a lull in the traffic of the street, and very few people or vehicles were to be seen except those collected around the scene of the accident. The two drivers were wrangling and swearing at each other, so that nothing was to be got out of them. Cunningham made use of some strong language for his private satisfaction. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes after nine, and they would have been at the station if the break-down had not occurred. He went quickly back to the cab. “Miss Ronald,” he said, “the horse has fallen down and broken the shaft. There isn’t another cab in sight, and we mustn’t waste any time getting away, or the police may detain us to tell what we know of the accident. I don’t see anything to do but to run for it,” he added, with a frantic attempt to speak cheerfully. The girl got quickly out of the cab. “This is terrible, Mr. Cunningham,” she gasped. “We _must_ catch that nine-thirty train. The College is locked at ten o’clock, and I am _obliged_ to be there by that time.”