"Dot Hans was one goot man. Him I haf nefer to vatch. He does joost vot I tells him, effery time already."
But where was the faithful Hans Kleinhardt who was personally responsible for the safe delivery of those thirteen puddings?
His supper finished, Hans was hastening back to the store with the important cards in his pocket. A shout, a scurrying to avoid a runaway horse, a hurt man, a crowd, an ambulance,—and Hans Kleinhardt, unconscious of all around him, was on his way to the City Hospital.
An hour later a surgeon, with an air of satisfaction, said to a quiet little nurse:
"A beautiful fracture,—compound,—man in good condition,—will recover nicely,—but don't let him talk for twenty-four hours."
And in that man's pocket lay thirteen cards, and they never said a word.