looked like a bundle of rags and newspapers.

Thinking of nothing save that limp little body, Miss Durant sprang out,
and kneeling beside it, lifted the head gently into her lap, and smoothed
back from the pallid face the unkempt hair. "He isn't dead, Wallace?" she
gasped out.

"I don't think he is, Miss Constance, though he looks like he was bad
hurt. An', indeed, Miss Constance, it wasn't Murdock's fault. The coupé
backed right into our pole without--"

"Here," interrupted a man's voice from the circle of spectators, "give him
this;" and some one handed to the girl the cup of a flask half full of
brandy. Dipping her fingers into it, she rubbed them across the mouth and
forehead; then, raising the head with one of her arms, she parted the lips
and poured a few drops between them.

"Now, mum," suggested the policeman. "Just you let go of it, and we'll
lift it to where it can stay till the ambulance gets here."

"Oh, don't," begged Miss Durant. "He shouldn't be moved until--"

"Like as not it'll take ten minutes to get it here, and we can't let the
street stay blocked like this."

"Ten minutes!" exclaimed the girl. "Isn't it possible--We must get help
sooner, or he--" She broke in upon her own words, "Lift him into my
carriage, and I'll take him to the hospital."

"Can't let you, miss," spoke up a police sergeant, who meantime had forced