“Nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Porter severely. “The man is hardly hurt at all. Be more accurate in your remarks.” She eyed the speaker sternly. He wilted. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled sheepishly. The policeman, with that lionlike courage which makes the New York constabulary what it is, endeavoured to assert himself at this point. “Hey!” he boomed. Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze. “I beg your pardon?” “This won’t do, ma’am. I’ve me report to make. How did this happen?” “You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile.” “But——” “I shall not charge him.” She turned and followed Kirk. “But, say——” The policeman’s voice was now almost plaintive. Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman, having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved his feelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locust stick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile’s hooter, in a sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. The policeman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in the street. “Put him to bed,” said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couch in the studio. “You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticed that you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grossly out of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day.” “I’m not so young as I was, ma’am,” protested George. “When I was in the harmy I was a fine figure of a man.” “The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,” commented Mrs. Porter. “Beer?” A grateful smile irradiated George’s face. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s very kind of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do.” “The man appears a perfect imbecile,” said Mrs. Porter, turning abruptly to Kirk. “I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to beer and he babbles.” “I think he thought you were offering him a drink,” suggested Kirk. “As a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn’t hurt him, after the shock he has had.” “On no account. The worst thing possible.” “This isn’t your lucky day, George,” said Kirk. “Well, I guess I’ll phone to the doctor.” “Quite unnecessary.” “I beg your pardon?” “Entirely unnecessary. I have made an examination. There is practically nothing the matter with the man. Put him to bed, and let him sponge his knee with warm water.” “Are you a doctor, Mrs. Porter?” “I have studied first aid.” “Well, I think, if you don’t mind, I should like to have your opinion confirmed.” This was rank mutiny. Mrs. Porter stared haughtily at Kirk. He met her gaze with determination. “As you please,” she snapped. “Thank you,” said Kirk. “I don’t want to take any risks with George. I couldn’t afford to lose him. There aren’t any more like him: they’ve mislaid the pattern.” He went to the telephone.