Mr. Connors cautiously drew his “cannister” from his pocket and tested trigger and hammer. If the lone wayfarer quietly accepted the charge of the “guy wid de busted slat” there need be no friction. If he lacked that large sympathy which should make him a willing rescuer, then he must have philanthropy thrust upon him. Mr. Connors meant to thrust it with the pistol. So he gave thanks that this was not a party, nor a couple, but only an unaccompanied chauffeur. When the injured man should be safely stowed in the tonneau the trusteeship of Mr. Connors would terminate. Then what? Life has its business exigencies even for those of us who are not materialists. Men who tour in motor-cars may be assumed to carry money. Why not first impress the gentleman into service and then relieve him of his valuables? Why should the doctrine of socialism apply as to the man who lay wounded and not as to this one who drove an automobile? The man in the road rose with a sigh of relief. He stretched himself, adjusted the pump and bent to his labor again. Mr. Connors sat watching. At last that too was done. The lone motorist put away his tools and turned wearily. Apparently the sight of the car fatigued him. As he did this Mr. Connors stepped out of the shadow and placed the muzzle of his revolver in impressive juxtaposition with the gentleman’s face. The gentleman had fancied himself alone. The discovery that he had been mistaken surprised him. It startled him. “Let’s see you stretch your arms up high,” suggested Mr. Connors. The gentleman obligingly and promptly followed the suggestion. “What is this, if I may ask?” he inquired. “Highway robbery?” “Some of it is,” Mr. Connors assured him pleasantly, “an’ some of it’s ambulance service.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” admitted the traveler. “Dat’s all right. You will foller me in about t’ree minutes,” replied Mr. Connors. “But before dat let’s see w’at youse got in yer clothes.” * * * * * The motorist offered no verbal protest. When one looks down a gun-barrel at one A. M. in a lonely road, silence is eighteen karat fine. This highwayman was carefully keeping a position just too far away for a clinch. At that distance the pistol gave him priority of rank and entitled him to issue orders. “Get over dere in de light an’ turn your pockets out!” directed Mr. Connors. “T’row everyt’ing down here by me feet. If youse got a gun in yer clothes I wants ter see it come out wid the muzzle pointed de oder way! See?” The gentleman saw. “I haven’t a gun,” he said. “An’,” pursued Mr. Connors succinctly, “let’s be on de level wid each oder. Don’t let’s have no holdin’ back. I wants ter see de linin’s of dem pockets hangin’ outside. You looks prettier dat way.” For a moment there was complete silence, while pocket contents showered on the grass at Mr. Connors’ feet. Mr. Connors secured for himself the gentleman’s coat, which hung over the tonneau door.