shirtless chest, smoking a salvaged cigar, dreaming, probably, of
hot sausages and coffee. He afforded a striking illustration of the
under dog cringing contentedly at the knees of wealth.

"Good man," said Oldershaw, paying him generously. "Slip aboard,
Martin, and I'll introduce you to one of the choicest dives I know."

But the introduction was not to be effected that night, at any rate.
Driving the car as though it were a monoplane in a clear sky, with
an open throttle that awoke the echoes, Oldershaw charged into Fifth
Avenue and caught the bonnet of a taxicab that was going uptown.
There was a crash, a scream, a rending of metal. And when Martin
picked himself up with a bruised elbow and a curious sensation of
having stopped a punching bag with his face, he saw Oldershaw
bending over the crumpled body of the taxi driver and heard a girl
with red lips and a small white hat calling on Heaven for
retribution.

"Some men oughtn't to be trusted with machinery," said Oldershaw
with his inevitable grin. "If I can yank my little pet out of this
buckled-up lump of stuff, I'll drive that poor chap to the nearest
hospital. Look after the angel, Martin, and give my name and address
to the policeman. As this is my third attempt to kill myself this
month, things ought to settle down into humdrum monotony for a bit
now."

Martin went over to the girl. "I hope you're not hurt?" he asked.

"Hurt?" she cried out hysterically, feeling herself all over. "Of
course I'm hurt. I'm crippled for life. My backbone's broken; I