"Set the torch here."

"Oh, Boyee, Boyee!" The great, dark man had dropped to his knees, his
face a mask of agony.

"Oh, the devil!" said the physician disgustedly. "You're no help. Clear
a way there, some of you, so that I can get him to the hotel." Then, to
the other. "Keep quiet. There's no danger. Only a flesh wound, but he's
fainted."

Carefully he swung the small form to his shoulder, and forced a way
through the crowd, the little girl, who had followed him to the
platform, composedly trotting along in his wake, while the
Hardscrabbler, moaning from the pain of two broken ribs, was led away by
a constable. Some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken
man, muttering brilliant bargain offers of good conduct to Almighty God,
if "Boyee" were saved to him.

Once in the little hotel room, the physician went about his business
with swift decisiveness, aided by the mite of a girl, who seemed to know
by instinct where to be and what to do in the way of handling towels,
wash-basin, and the other simple paraphernalia required. Professor
Certain was unceremoniously packed off to the drug store for bandages.
When he returned the patient had recovered consciousness.

"Where's Dad?" he asked eagerly. "Did he hurt Dad?"

"No, Boyee." The big man was at the bedside in two long, velvety-footed
steps. Struck by the extenuation of the final "y" in the term, the
physician for the first time noted a very faint foreign accent, the