The sun was setting as Jack crossed the bridge over the Passaic at the north end of town, and the toll-gatherer noticed that the driver was (as he had often seen him before) in liquor. Jack Heath was not at any time a very pleasing object to look at, and still less so when in his cups, for his tipsiness bore an expression of defiant arrogance that boded no good to intermeddlers. Thus, flown with insolence and wine, along he went, lashing his horse and driving recklessly up the principal street of the town, in utter disregard of the wayfarers, whom he roughly ordered with an oath to get out of his way. Just at that moment a young man, with a slight limp in his gait, was crossing the street, who seemed in no haste to accelerate his pace at Jack Heath's bidding. A well-dressed young fellow he was, of about twenty, with a dash of pretension in his appearance, and a light in his eye that betokened a spirit not likely to brook dictation. Jack, unfortunately, was not in a condition to discriminate, and as he approached the pedestrian, yelled, with a curse, "Ki-hi--cripple! Out of the way, or I'll run over you!" No sooner were these words uttered, than the young man, pale with anger, raised a light cane he carried, and struck fiercely at the horse's head. The nervous animal, frightened at this sudden attack, sprang off sideways, dashing the light jagger against the curb, and sending its occupant headlong to the earth. Such an excitement in the quiet street! The disaster occurred directly opposite McGoffin's "Shoe Emporium," and that honest tradesman ran out, leaving Miss Winter (a highly respectable maiden lady whom he was about measuring for bootees) to expose in her agitation and stockings her somewhat large and bulbous feet to the brutal gaze of a gathering crowd. The colored barber from over the way hastened to the spot with a razor in his hand, followed by a half-shaved client with lathered, face and bib on, and then in quick succession loungers from the "Tanglefoot Saloon" and corner grocery. Meanwhile, the cause of all this trouble, whom we may as well introduce to the reader at once as Mark Gildersleeve, forgot his resentment on seeing the plight of his insulter, and hurried off for a physician, under the impression that; perhaps, Jack Heath was killed. There he lay in the kennel, stunned, with a cut on his sconce and a contemplative crowd about him. Discussions arose as to whether he was dead or dying, and a glass of brandy was put to his lips as a test; it probably being deemed conclusive that if he did not drink, or at least taste the beverage, he must be very nearly in the former condition. As he did neither, his case looked hopeless, and some one suggested removing him to the apothecary's shop; but Mr. Snopple, the photographer, a little fat man who diffused an aroma of collodion about him, protested strenuously, reminding the by-standers that it would be a violation of the law, and render a person