The beggar only swung back and forth, muttering with frenzied rapidity. With one hand the Unspeakable Perk stopped him, as one might intercept the runaway pendulum of a clock, setting the other on his forehead. Then he bent and brought his goblin eyes to bear on the dark face. The features were distorted, the eyelids tremulous over suffused eyes, and the teeth set. Opening the man’s loose shirt, Perkins thrust his hand within. It might have been supposed that he was feeling for the heart action, were it not that his hand slid past the breast and around under the arm. When he drew it out, he stood for a moment with chin dropped, in consideration. Midday heat had all but cleared the plaza. As he looked about, the helper saw no aid, until his eye fell upon the waiting cab. He fairly bounded up the stairs, calling something to the coachman. “No,” grunted that toiler, with the characteristic discourtesy of the Caracuñan lower class, and jerked his head backward toward his fare. “I beg your pardon,” said the Unspeakable Perk eagerly, in Spanish, turning to the dim recess of the victoria. “Might I—Oh, it’s you!” He seized Carroll by the arm. “I want your cab.” “Indeed!” said Carroll. “Well, you’re cool enough about it.” “And your help,” added the other. “What for?” “Do you have to ask questions? The man may be dying—is dying, I think.” “All right,” said Carroll promptly. “What’s to be done?” “Get him home. Help me carry him to the cab.” Between them, the two men lifted the heavy, mumbling cripple, carried him up the steps with a rush, and deposited him in the cab, while the driver was still angrily expostulating. The beggar was shivering now, and the cold sweat rolled down his face. His bearers placed themselves on each side of him. Perkins gave an order to the driver, who seemed to object, and a rapid-fire argument ensued. “What’s wrong?” asked Carroll. “Says he won’t go there. Says he was hired by you for shopping.” Carroll took one look at the agony-wrung face of the beggar, who was being held on the seat by his companion. “Won’t he?” said he grimly. “We’ll see.” Rising, he threw a pair of long arms around those of the driver, pinning him, caught the reins, and turned the horses. “Now ask him if he’ll drive,” he directed Perkins. “Si, señor!” gasped the coachman, whose breath had been squeezed almost through his crackling ribs. “See that you do,” the Southerner bade him, in accents that needed no interpretation. Presently Perkins looked up from his charge. “Got a cigar?” he asked abruptly. “No,” replied the other, a little disgusted by this levity in the presence of imminent death. Perkins bade the driver stop at the corner. “Don’t let him fall off the seat,” he admonished Carroll, and jumped out. In the course of a minute he reappeared, smoking a cheroot that appeared to be writhing and twisting in the effort to escape from its own noxious fumes. “Have one,” he said, extending a handful to his companion.