“Well, y-y-yes!” Westy lied, flushing with embarrassment for doing so. “Oh, I say, but I’m sorry! Feel better now, huh? Were you coming to see me too?” “Yes--that is--first I was, but I didn’t think I’d have time. Going to take the bus to Archie’s. Invited there this afternoon,” Westy said, and then to relieve the pounding around his heart: “Don’t feel keen about going, though.” “I can imagine,” Artie said with feeling, “but it’ll do you good if you’ve been sick to be quiet for a while. You better cross now, Wes, I think I hear your bus coming now. See you later. Wait! Look! Whassa matter with it?” The bus came lumbering down the street pell-mell and careened from one side to the other like a drunken man. The two boys could see, even from a distance, that something had evidently happened to the driver, as he had slunk down in his seat and his head hung over the wheel. The huge car was running wild! “My Father!” Westy cried. “He’s in it!” “Maybe you can----” Artie yelled as Westy ran toward the center of the road. “Yes, maybe I can!” Westy’s voice could hardly be heard above the cries of the few pedestrians in the street and the frenzied shouts of the passengers within the bus. Westy then gauged the distance from where he stood and then backed over to the curb. With a rush it came directly toward him, heading straight for the large elm tree at his back. He must avoid that at all costs, he thought. The door of the bus was open, the weather still being mild; so Westy jumped blindly! Just making the step he reached across the inert form of the driver, whom he could tell at one glance was dead, grasped the emergency brake, and jamming his feet down taut and firm, stopped the car with a grinding shriek just at the edge of the curb. There were only two faces that Westy could ever remember afterward in that near-fateful bus. One was the white and trembling face of Archie Captroop, whose quivering lips revealed the fact that not only had he lost his head in that near-tragedy but also his nerve. The other face was that of his father, lying prone upon the floor, the blood streaming out of a deep gash in his scalp and entirely covering his head. With a cry of distress Westy knelt beside him and spoke to him tenderly, but there came no answer to his earnest pleadings. He lifted his father’s head up gently and with a sob that bespoke his anguish realized at once that his father was unconscious, probably dying. CHAPTER XV—A LIFE IN THE BALANCE The House of Martin during the next few hours was the scene of much anxiety and despair. A white-capped nurse was passing in and out of the sick-room, while Westy and his sister sat on the stairway, apprehensive each time that she had come to tell them the worst. Mrs. Martin, sitting faithfully by her husband’s side, dry-eyed, seemed shaken with grief inwardly and her white face looked haunted with lost hope.