You see, I'd spotted the faker's name on the wagon license, and it
occurs to me that before any of them damage-suit shysters get to him it
would be a good scheme to discover just how bad he was bunged up. So
my bluff is that it's an uncle of mine that's been hurt. By pushin' it
good and hard too, and insistin' that I'd got to see him, I gets clear
into the cot without bein' held up. And there's the victim, snoozin'
peaceful.

"Gee!" says I to the nurse, sniffin' the atmosphere. "Had to brace him
up with a drink, did you?"

She smiles at that. "Hardly," says she. "He had attended to that, or
he wouldn't be in here. This is the alcoholic ward, you know."

"Huh!" says I. "Pickled, was he? But is he hurt bad?"

"Not at all," says she. "He will be all right as soon as he's sober."

Did I smoke it back to the station house? Well, some! And Mr. Robert
was there, talkin' to two volunteer witnesses who was ready to swear
the faker was drivin' on the wrong side of the street and not lookin'
where he was goin'.

"How could he," says I, "when he was soused to the ears?"

Course, it took some time to convince the Sergeant; but after he'd had
word from the hospital he concludes to accept a hundred cash, let
Dudley go until mornin', and scratch Marjorie's name off the book.
Goin' back to the house we four rides inside, with Henry at the wheel.