in the tonneau a single flash of light went zig-zagging crookedly from
brow to chin,--and was gone again. "Hello, Fat Father!" piped the shrill
little voice. "Hello,--Fat Father!" Yet so subtly was the phrase
mouthed, to save your soul you could not have proved just where the
greeting ended and the taunt began.

There was nothing subtle however about the way in which the Senior
Surgeon's hand shot out and slammed the tonneau door bang-bang again on
its original passenger. His face was crimson with anger. Brusquely he
pointed to the front seat.

"You may sit in there, with me, Miss Malgregor!" he thundered.

"Yes, sir," crooned the White Linen Nurse.

Meek as an oiled machine she scuttled to her appointed place. Once
More in smothered giggle and unprotesting acquiescence she sensed the
resumption of eternal discipline. Already in just this trice of time
she felt her rampant young mouth resettle tamely into lines of smug,
determinate serenity. Already across her idle lap she felt her clasped
fingers begin to frost and tingle again like a cheerfully non-concerned
bunch of live wires waiting the one authoritative signal to connect
somebody,--anybody,--with this world or the next. Already the facile tip
of her tongue seemed fairly loaded and cocked like a revolver with all
the approximate "Yes, sirs," "No, sirs," that she thought she should
probably need.

But the only immediate remarks that the Senior Surgeon addressed to any
one were addressed distinctly to the crank of his automobile.