Mr. Connors, rolling a cigarette, was startled by the collapse of his _vis-à-vis_. He rose and went over to investigate. He studied the face and its pallor impressed him. Mr. Rat Connors stood indicted for several dozen felonies. More cities claimed him living than ever claimed Homer dead. The fact that he was at large was sufficient evidence of his criminal efficiency. Yet at times he felt that a career of great promise was seriously handicapped by a tendency toward softheartedness. Now his hands played over the prostrate body as deftly as though the fingers were experimenting with the combination of a safe. The diagnosis told him that a rib and a collar bone were broken. There might be also other breakages, but these two were patent on a cursory inventory. “Now if dat ain’t ——,” snarled Mr. Connors, “I’ll eat a goat!” He sat down and brooded bitterly. He had been booted off a train and had dropped into the company of a stranger. By virtue of helplessness, this stranger became an enforced trust upon the unwilling hands of Mr. Connors until he could be turned over to some one else. Mutual misfortune created a certain tie of brotherhood. Mr. Connors scorned the quitter who abandoned even a chance pal in a state of wounded disability. Every profession has its ethics. There was, however, no ethical objection to robbing the invalid’s pockets. Mr. Connors was a socialist. This man had money. Mr. Connors had none. It was equitable that the extremes of wealth and poverty be leveled. Profound thinkers have enunciated this principle. Mr. Connors bent over and proceeded to carry into effect the socialistic propaganda by the simple device of searching every pocket. Mr. Copewell had drawn his check that day with a view to meeting the requirements of honeymooning—and honeymooning is an expensive pastime. The eyes of Mr. Rat Connors bulged and glittered in the firelight as he counted bills and made transfers. Then Mr. Connors dragged the prostrate figure farther back into the shadow and arranged it as comfortably as possible on the grass. After that he piled fresh sticks on the blaze. “Now I’ve got ter find some hoosier ter look after dis guinea,” soliloquized the unwilling custodian. “Gee, but it’s —— to be soft-hearted!” He paused and felt through his coat the thick wad of bills in his pocket. “An’ say, Rat, me son,” he added with deep sorrow, “wid a bun like dat yer could beat it ter de North Pole, too!” Mr. Connors struck off at random into the night, singing mournfully as he went: “Jay Gould’s daughter, afore she died, Done signed a paper so de bums can’t ride.” CHAPTER VI MR. BURROW SUGGESTS A REMEDY