of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."

"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."

Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.

When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
of the flying car.

Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
the lost tire.

One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
his pride.

Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.

Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner