"Yes, father. He will be very welcome, if he is your friend." On her bosom was a red rose which the florist had given her when she purchased the flowers for her father. Sometimes even florists are human, you know. "Good afternoon; I'll see you later," said Bobbie, cheerily. "You haven't any flowers, Mr. Burke. May I give you this little one?" asked Mary, as she unpinned the rose. Burke flushed. He smiled, bashfully, and old Barton beamed. "Thank you," said Bobbie, and the attendant wheeled him on into his own room. "Nurse, could you get me a glass of water for this rose?" asked Bobbie. "Certainly," said the pretty nurse, with a curious glance at the red blossom. "It's very pretty. It's just a bud and, if you keep it fresh, will last a long time." She placed it on the table by his cot. As she left the room, she looked again at the rose. Sometimes even nurses are human. And Bobbie looked at the rose. It was the sweetest rose he had ever seen. He hoped that it would last a long, long time. "I will try to keep it fresh," he murmured, as he awkwardly rolled over into his bed. Sometimes even policemen are human, too. CHAPTER III THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT Officer Burke was back again at his work on the force. He was a trifle pale, and the hours on patrol duty and fixed post seemed trebly long, for even his sturdy physique was tardy in recuperating from that vicious shock at the base of his brain. "Take it easy, Burke," advised Captain Sawyer, "you have never had a harder day in uniform than this one. Those two fires, the work at the lines with the reserves and your patrol in place of Dexter, who is laid up with his cold, is going it pretty strong." "That's all right, Captain. I'm much obliged for your interest. But a little more work to-night won't hurt me. I'll hurry strength along by keeping up this hustling. People who want to stay sick generally succeed. Doctor MacFarland is looking after me, so I am not worried." Bobbie left the house with his comrades to relieve the men on patrol. It was late afternoon of a balmy spring day. The weeks since he had been injured had drifted into months, and there seemed many changes in the little world of the East Side. This store had failed; that artisan had moved out, and even two or three fruit dealers whom Bobbie patronized had disappeared. In the same place stood other stands, managed by Italians who looked like caricatures drawn by the same artist who limned their predecessors. "It must be pretty hard for even the Italian Squad to tell all these fellows apart, Tom," said Bobbie, as they stood on the corner by one of the stalls.