closed, and all the people who had not gone to the baseball game with Fall River were in the streets. In consequence, as I was passing the post-office, Miss Briggs came down the steps, and we were face to face. In her lovely eyes was an expression of mingled doubt and indignation and in her hand freshly torn from the papers in which I had wrapped it, was “The Log of the JOLLY POLLY.” In action Miss Briggs was as direct as a submarine. At sight of me she attacked. “Did you send me this?” she asked. I lowered my bag to the sidewalk and prepared for battle. “I didn't think of your going to the post-office,” I said. “I planned you'd get it to-morrow after I'd left. When I sent it, I thought I would never see you again.” “Then you did send it!” exclaimed Miss Briggs. As though the book were a hot plate she dropped it into my hand. She looked straight at me, but her expression suggested she was removing a caterpillar from her pet rosebush. “You had no right,” she said. “You may not have meant to be impertinent, but you were!” Again, as though I had disappeared from the face of the earth, Miss Briggs gazed coldly about her, and with dignity started to cross the street. Her dignity was so great that she glanced neither to the left nor right. In consequence she did not see an automobile that swung recklessly around a trolley-car and dived at her. But other people saw it and shrieked. I also shrieked, and dropping the suit-case and the “Log,” jumped into the street, grabbed Miss Briggs by both arms, and flung her back to the sidewalk. That left me where she had been, and the car caught me up and slammed me head first against a telegraph pole. The pole was hard, and if any one counted me out I did not stay awake to hear him. When I came to I was conscious that I was lying on a sidewalk; but to open my eyes, I was much too tired. A voice was saying, “Do you know who he is, Miss?” The voice that replied was the voice of the lovely Miss Briggs. But now I hardly recognized it. It was full of distress, of tenderness and pity. “No, I don't know him,” it stammered. “He's a salesman--he was in the store this morning--he's selling motor-cars.” The first voice laughed. “Motor-cars!” he exclaimed. “That's why he ain't scared of 'em. He certainly saved you from that one! I seen him, Miss Briggs, and he most certainly saved your life!” In response to this astonishing statement I was delighted to hear a well-trained male chorus exclaim in assent. The voices differed; some spoke in the accents of Harvard, pure and undefiled, some in a “down East” dialect, others suggested Italian peanut venders and Portuguese sailors, but all agreed that the life of Miss Briggs had been saved by myself. I had intended coming to, but on hearing the chorus working so harmoniously I decided I had better continue unconscious. Then a new voice said importantly: “The marks on his suitcase are 'F. F., New York.”