"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel, you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there. Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, but they're all over the place--climbing on you, mauling you, tripping you up. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngsters are always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep out of the way until dinner." "I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?" "Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "But when they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with sticky fingers--no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to think they are all little wonders. And Dick is just as bad--rushes home early every afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!" "Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family of your own." "Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!" I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shied matrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on Sister Mabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, a wife and kids wouldn't fit in at all. We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on the back stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams on the emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyond where this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-lined throw-scarf. "What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back. "Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch of youngsters with her and--yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!" "O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must." As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a look at this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky around this young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle on top of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin' a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'. "You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe. "Heavens, no!" says he. "But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on. "Why, let's see," says Babe. "Oh, yes! Put a cold door key on the back of his neck." "Or a piece of brown paper on his tongue," I adds. The young lady shrugs her shoulders disappointed. "I've tried all that," says she, "and an ice pack, too. But it's no use. I must get him to a doctor right away. There's one about a mile down this road. Couldn't you take us?" "Sure thing!" says Babe. "Torchy, you can hang on the back, can't you?" "Oh, I can walk home," says I. "No, no," says Babe, hasty. "You--you'd best come along." So I helps load in the young lady and the claret drippin' youngster, drapes myself on the spare tires, and we're off. "Is it little brother?" asks Babe, glancin' at the kid.