“Is there really an injured man? Is this true?” asked the lady. Evidently she was willing to be reasonable.
“Honest ter Gawd, lady!” Mr. Connors spoke earnestly and his eyes wore their frankest appeal. “Dis guy is liable ter croak if he don’t git a doctor. He’s a pore skate. Meself, I don’t know him personally, but I’se sorry fer him.”
“Some disreputable drunk!” growled the gentleman savagely. “Some contemptible hobo like this man here.”
“It occurs to me,” suggested the young woman in a level voice, “that up to this point you have been very obedient to this person you call a contemptible hobo. At all events I’m not going to leave an injured man by the roadside. I’m going with this person. Do you care to come along?”
“Oh, he’ll come along all right,” Mr. Connors assured her. “I needs him ter run de car.”
The gentleman’s face went white with anger; then, as he turned his eyes on Mr. Connors, his expression grew quizzical, even amused, and a light of sudden recognition came to his pupils.
“Mr. Rat Connors,” he said with deliberate courtesy of address, “I congratulate myself that I have fallen under the bow and spear of so distinguished a crook as yourself. I retract the ‘contemptible hobo.’ I have just recognized you.”
“Mr. High-Brow Reformer Burrow,” replied Mr. Connors with instant promptness, “t’anks fer dem kind woids.”
“May I inquire,” purred Mr. Burrow, “how you knew me?”
“After you, after you!” returned the young gentleman modestly. “How did yer git hep ter me?”