"That poor soul's been there all night," said Mrs. Bines. "She's afraid her baby's going to die; and yet she was so cheerful and polite about it, and when I gave her some money the poor thing blushed. I told her to bring the baby down to the floating hospital to-morrow, but I mistrust it won't be alive, and--oh, there's an ambulance backed up to the sidewalk; see what the matter is." As Percival pushed through the outer edge of the crowd, a battered wreck of a man past middle age was being lifted into the ambulance. His eyes were closed, his face a dead, chalky white, and his body hung limp. "Sunstroke?" asked Percival. The overworked ambulance surgeon, who seemed himself to be in need of help, looked up. "Nope; this is a case of plain starvation. I'm nearer sunstroke myself than he is--not a wink of sleep for two nights now. Fifty-two runs since yesterday at this time, and the bell still ringing. Gee! but it's hot. This lad won't ever care about the weather again, though," he concluded, jumping on to the rear step and grasping the rails on either side while the driver clanged his gong and started off. "Was it sunstroke?" asked Mrs. Bines. "Man with stomach trouble," answered her son, shortly. "They're so careless about what they eat this hot weather," Mrs. Bines began, as they walked toward a carriage; "all sorts of heavy foods and green fruit--" "Well, if you must know, this one had been careless enough not to eat anything at all. He was starved." "Oh, dear! What a place! here people are starving, and look at us! Why, we wasted enough from breakfast to feed a small family. It isn't right. They never would allow such a thing in Montana City." They entered the carriage and were driven slowly up a side street where slovenly women idled in windows and doorways and half-naked children chased excitedly after the ice-wagons. "I used to think it wasn't right myself until I learned not to question the ways of Providence." "Providence, your grandmother! Look at those poor little mites fighting for that ice!" "We have to accept it. It seems to be proof of the Creator's versatility. It isn't every one who would be nervy enough and original enough to make a world where people starve to death right beside those who have too much." "That's rubbish!" "You're blasphemous! and you're overwrought about the few cases of need here. Think of those two million people that have just starved to death in India." "That wasn't my fault." "Exactly; if you'd been there the list might have been cut down four or five thousand; not more. It was the fault of whoever makes the weather. It didn't rain and their curry crop failed--or whatever they raise--and there you are; and we couldn't help matters any by starving ourselves to death."