As the girl approached the group, one or two of the older and better dressed townspeople edged rather shamefacedly away. The village postman, hailing the girl loquaciously, explained, "Just one of them Gloomy Guses. They come out like turtles this time of the year. This feller has likely stole a ride on a freight car and been dumped off at West Morris. Seems he's trying to pertend he don't know who he is. That ain't hard for a tramp; ain't nobody anyhow." The postman scratched his head, wishing to cover all aspects of the matter. "Ef he's drunk, it's a new kind of drunk. Vanilla extract, they tell me, is what this kind boozes on nowadays." To the girl's indignant question, "Oh, they ain't doing him no harm; just worrying him a little to see him act funny. The authorities?" the postman looked a little vague. "Well, I should say, it being about noon, that the authorities has gone home to their dinners." The young figure crossed the street and approached the jeering loafers absorbed in prodding the helpless bundle of humanity in the gutter. They shoved it from side to side as they demanded, "Say, where's yer wife? Where'd ye come from? We'll tell yer where to get off! Say, Jack, where do you keep the stuff? You tell me, I won't let anybody know." More comments of a humorous nature were made for the benefit of the girl approaching. "He ain't so handsome when ye come close up." One wag hushed the others elaborately. "No, mebbe it's some friend of this young lady's. Say, take him for a ride, Miss. I'll bet he ain't never had one." "Give him a shave first," urged one gum-chewing youth. There was violent nudging from a rather stout woman in the group. "Shut up! Ain't you got no sense? That's Judge Bogart's daughter." Then to railing unbelief, "Sure it is. Ain't I washed down to her house a hundred times? Hullo, Miss Bogart, ain't it terrible how these fellers is treating that poor drunk?" At the voice, the girl lifted her concerned gaze from the sight of the wretched figure sitting now on the curbstone, both bleeding shoe-wrecked feet in the gutter. "Mrs. Croyder, this is pitiful. Why doesn't someone do something? Why do the authorities permit people to be tormented like this?" Mrs. Croyder, as one not accustomed to question the vagaries of the authorities, was a little vague. "Well, now, Mr. Snowgen, that's the policeman, wouldn't never hear to anything like it, but he's gone home to his dinner." "Then the traffic police?" The girl looked about her eagerly. "They've gone home to their dinners," "But surely----" With an impatient exclamation the girl bent down in the middle of the awed circle and looked keenly into the face of the vagabond on the curb. She examined the bleeding feet and pale, distraught face and spoke very gently. "Can I help you?"