“Well, how do you like it, as fur's you've gone?” asked the instructing conductor, in whom Lemuel had recognised an old acquaintance. “Sweet life, ain't it? There! That switch hain't worked again! Jump off, young man, and put your shoulder to the wheel!” The car had failed to take the right-hand turn where the line divided; it had to be pushed back, and while the driver tugged and swore under his breath at his horses, Lemuel set himself to push the car. “'S no use!” said the driver finally. “I got to hitch 'em on at the other end, and pull her back.” He uncoupled the team from the front of the car, and swung round with it. Lemuel felt something strike him, on the leg, and he fell down. He scrambled to his feet again, but his left leg doubled under him; it went through his mind that one of the horses must have lashed out and broken it; then everything seemed to stop. The world began again for him in the apothecary's shop where he had been carried, and from which he was put into an ambulance, by a policeman. It stopped again, as he whirled away; it renewed itself in anguish, and ceased in bliss as he fainted from the pain or came to. They lifted him up some steps, at last, and carried him into a high, bright room, where there were two or three cots, and a long glass case full of surgical instruments. They laid him on a cot, and some one swiftly and skilfully undressed him. A surgeon had come in, and now he examined Lemuel's leg. He looked once or twice at his face. “This is a pretty bad job, I can't tell how bad till you have had the ether. Will you leave it with me?” “Yes. But do the best you can for me.” “You may be sure I will.” Lemuel believed that they meant to cut off his leg. He knew that he had a right to refuse and to take the consequences, but he would not; he had no right to choose death, when he had others to live for. He woke deathly sick at first, and found himself lying in bed, one of the two rows in a long room, where there were some quiet women in neat caps and seersucker dresses going about, with bowls of food and bottles of medicine. Lemuel still felt his leg, and the pain in it, but he had heard how mutilated men felt their lost limbs all their lives, and he was afraid to make sure by the touch of his hand. A nurse who saw his eyes open came to him. He turned them upon her, but he could not speak. She must have understood. “The doctor thinks he can save your leg for you; but it's a bad fracture. You must be careful to keep very still.”