Being middle-aged and unmarried he walked slowly and methodically, and was
careful, when he came level with an entrance, to note the particular gates
marked "In" and "Out." He would, as he crossed the "Out" opening, look
sharply to the right, and as he passed the "In" opening look sharply to the
left. "Safety first" was a creed with him.

One mild Spring afternoon, as he was passing by an "Out" aperture, with his
whole attention fixed to the right, he was aware, amid the sound of
motor-horns and shouts, that the roadway had risen up and struck him on the
back of the neck, and that something like the Marble Arch had kicked him at
the same moment.

A week later Mr. Jenkins recovered consciousness in a beautiful clean ward
of St. George's Hospital. A smiling nurse stood by his bed and, as he tried
to sit up, she told him he must be quiet and not disturb the bandages.

"Your friend Mr. Baldwin is coming to see you to-day at two o'clock," she
told him. "No, it is not serious; you are out of danger. Now you have only
to be quiet; so when your friend comes you mustn't talk too much."

He lay still and thought, and it all came back to him. "But, good heavens!"
was his reflection, "that car must have come _in_ by the '_Out_' gate! In
that case," he continued, not without pleasure, "I can claim damages--very
severe damages too."

At two o'clock Mr. Baldwin, his grey-bearded friend and partner, entered.
"Well, Jenkins," said he, "I'm glad to see you've turned the corner. You've
had rather a narrow squeak."