"Bless you, no! Broken leg, that's all. Bad break, I'll admit—compound fracture—but nothing to cause alarm."

"But he's got to go to a hospital," spoke up Roger, whom she had not noticed before.

"The hospital? Who said so?"

"The Doctor. He says ..."

"Oh, by all means," said the Doctor, quite as if the prospect gave him personal pleasure. "This isn't a bruised finger, you know. That chap won't be up and around for three weeks or a month at least. The hospital's the place for him."

"What hospital?" asked Judith thoughtfully.

"Judging by his clothes, I should say the County."

Judith sat bolt upright at that.

"He will not go to the County Hospital," she said with finality. "He won't go to any hospital."

"Don't get excited, sis," said Roger with soothing intent. But his words had the opposite effect.

"He's going to stay right where he is," she continued. "It's the least I can do, after nearly killing him."

"That's very kind and good, of course," said the Doctor in obedience to a glance from Roger. "But I'm afraid you don't quite understand. He'll be laid up for a long time—six weeks, perhaps. And really, he'd be better off in a hospital."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Judith sharply. "Is he going to need treatment?"

"Well, no," admitted the Doctor in some confusion.

"It's purely a matter of convalescence. He'll be far more comfortable here. He'll stay here. Now please go away and let me alone. I'm all fagged out."

The Doctor pleaded and cajoled, even, in obedience to further glances from Roger, ventured to order. But Judith merely closed her eyes and refused to listen to him at all. Finally, being something of a philosopher, he wished her a very pleasant good morning, and went on his way.

Roger continued to storm, though quite ineffectually.

"Why, confound it, sis," he cried in exasperation, "what's the sense in playing lady bountiful to a fellow who'll make use of his first day of health to enter a whopping big suit for damages against you?"

"Does he strike you as that sort of a chap?" she asked mildly.

"You know how he feels toward people like us. He told you, himself. He'd think it a sin to let a chance go by to soak us. He'd probably feel justified by the way we treated him this morning."

"We weren't very cordial, were we?"

"Cordial! I told him to get out before I threw him out. Why, he's as full of grievances as a cat is fleas. Mark my words, the only gratitude you'll get will be a good fat damage suit. And you know how much of a chance you'd have against him."

"Well, he'd deserve something, wouldn't he?" asked Judith. "He'll probably lose his position if he's going to be laid up for six weeks."

Roger looked at her in amazement.

"Say, are you going daffy?" Then he reflected for a moment. "That's not a bad idea, sis. I might give him a couple of hundred in exchange for a quit claim. That's what the railroads do in their accidents. A hundred or two will look bigger to him right now than a thousand next year. I'll get him before any shyster lawyer does. I'll fix it up, all right. Don't you worry, sis. That crazy anarchist won't trouble you ..."

But Judith was not worrying. Her eyes had closed again in a perfectly obvious simulation of sleep. For a moment Roger looked a little hurt by this indifferent reception of his idea. Then he tiptoed quietly out of the room.

Full of his plan, he hastened to the grey room, where the tall stranger lay, all his cheerful smile lost in the twisted grin of pain.

But he managed somehow to smile, after a fashion at least, when Roger came in.

"Hello," he said, with something of his characteristic buoyancy.

"Hello," said Roger, trying to be casual. "How you feeling?"

"Ever see a hog skinned?" grinned the tall man. "That's how."

Roger's sympathies were stirred. He was really a very tender-hearted lad. But he was not to be swerved from his purpose. He had a duty to perform.

"Bad business," he said seriously, seating himself beside the bed. Then he nodded to the maid, who had been detailed to act as nurse, to leave the room. When she had closed the door, he turned confidentially to Good.

"I say, old man," he said with something of embarrassment in his manner, "you're going to be laid up for a good stretch, you know, and you may lose your job and all that—"

"Tweedledee," said the tall man. "You can't lose what you haven't got."

Roger was at a loss just how to answer that sally, so he decided to overlook it.

"You're bound to be considerably put out," he went on.

"Considerably is right," chuckled Good.

Roger found it very difficult, much more so than he had expected, to talk to this curious creature. But he was persistent.

"Well, we don't intend that you shall lose anything," he said in as friendly a way as he could. But it was a little too friendly. It was the tone with which one offers a tip. "I'll give you a cheque for two hundred dollars—all the doctor's bills paid—and—" He drew a cheque book from his pocket and unscrewed his fountain pen. "How shall I make it out?"

Good raised his hand. "Cut that," he said shortly.

Roger misconstrued the gesture. It irritated him.

"Don't you think it's—enough?" he asked bluntly.

But the tall man only smiled.

"Oh, forget it," he said. "Why should you give me any money. You can pay the bills if you want to. Guess you'll have to if the medico's going to get anything. That'll call it square, I guess."

"How about the six weeks' lay-up?"

"I'll get a good rest and plenty to eat—at the county's expense. Why should I worry?" smiled Good.

"Then you refuse to accept a cheque?" demanded Roger.

"Of course."

Roger was so full of his own suspicions that it never occurred to him to question their justice. And the blithe and offhand way in which this ragamuffin declined his cheque only seemed to confirm his belief that he was playing for higher stakes. He lost his patience entirely.

"You'd rather wait till you can get some quack lawyer," he sneered, "and then try to bleed us for a big wad, eh?"

The man on the bed opened his eyes in amazement.

"Good Lord," he cried, "what kind of people have you been brought up with?"

"Well, just let me tell you, my friend," went on Roger hotly, "that you won't get a cent by that game. My sister has a witness to prove that the accident was all your own fault...."

"Well," interrupted the stranger, a little wearily, "that's right. What are you fussing about?"

It was Roger's turn to open his eyes in amazement.

"You mean—you admit—it was your fault?" he stammered.

"Of course. I was thinking about—something else—usually am—when your sister rang her bell. I didn't hear it, at first. When I did, I—well—I don't know—guess I just stepped the wrong way. It's my own fault for getting chewed up. Don't worry, my boy, there won't be any damage suit. I haven't any claim—besides I'm a good sight more afraid of lawyers than you are."

Roger stared in silent astonishment. "You are a queer one," he ejaculated finally.

The injured man smiled, a little sadly.

"You're awfully young to be so suspicious of your fellow man," he said almost to himself. Then, more briskly and cheerfully, he addressed himself to the very surprised and humiliated Roger.

"Now that we've got that settled, let's tackle the next question. When are you going to ship me into town?"

"We're not going to ship you in," answered Roger, very chastened.

Good lifted his eyebrows. "Not going to? What's the answer?"

"My sister intends to have you stay where you are." Then he added in a more friendly tone, "It's the least we can do for you, you know."

"Well, well!" Good's face was illumined with smiles. "I say, that's fine," he cried. "Most extraordinary, too," he added, under his breath. Then he surveyed the neatness and harmonious quiet of