Four hours had passed and still he had not regained consciousness. The doctor was standing, silently gazing down into the darkened street. He turned back toward the bedside and Mrs. Martin, watching his mobile face intently, thought she detected the faintest glimmer of hope pass across his features. “Another half hour will tell,” he told her, “and if he lives he’ll have his son to thank not only for his life, but for the half-dozen others he saved from being dashed to pieces.” The doctor, it seems, had witnessed the accident, and sang Westy’s praises for many a long day after. Archie had left to go home two hours before, saying he was too upset from the ordeal to stand the suspense of waiting. They couldn’t seem to get a coherent account from him as to how Mr. Martin injured his head. He said he couldn’t seem to remember, he was so excited, except that he saw him fall just as Westy jumped on the steps of the runaway bus. So Archie went and no one cared to detain him. Twenty minutes, then a half hour, went by that seemed to the waiting trio like years. The nurse, reëntering the room, took the sick man’s pulse and nodded to the doctor who was standing close by. Slowly but surely Mr. Martin opened his eyes, smiling rather wanly at his wife, who was now bending eagerly over him. She was afraid to speak lest he should fall back again into that coma. The doctor, suspecting her fear, spoke softly. “He’ll be all right now, providing he has nothing to excite him. Perfect quiet and rest will do the trick. I’ll be back in a few hours!” The nurse went out of the room with him and Mrs. Martin clasped her husband’s hand in hers, fighting back the fears of joy that were continually overflowing. The door opened once again, but this time it was Doris and Westy whose youthful figures were framed in the doorway. Mrs. Martin put her finger to her lips and motioned for them to come. “That’s all right,” Mr. Martin spoke weakly. “I want to talk to that boy of mine!” “Not now, dear,” Mrs. Martin said almost pleadingly. “I’m afraid you’re not quite up to it just yet.” “Rats!” he replied firmly this time. “Takes a whole lot to kill me, I guess. Westy, come here!” “Yes, Father,” said Westy, with tears brimming in his large eyes as he knelt once more by his father’s side. “My boy, you’re a real he-man, do you know that?” he said, raising his hand from under the coverlet and placing it on Westy’s bowed head. “I’m no end proud of you, lad!” “M-mm,” was all Westy could say. “After what I witnessed to-day--is it still to-day?” he asked, turning his head toward the window where the shades were now drawn. His wife nodded. “After what I witnessed to-day,” he continued, sheer gratitude inflecting his voice, “I’m quite sure that there isn’t a boy alive who is any better able to take care of himself than our boy. Isn’t that right, Mother?” Mrs. Martin smiled her assent.