Lars gathered all his strength to a broken speech:
“No.... Bank ... Found window ... Midnight ... nearly.... Shot me.... Didn’t see him.” He fell back on Uncle Sam’s starry vest.
“Ambulance coming,” said Uncle Sam. “Will he live, doc?”
Doc shook his head doubtfully.
“Poor chance. Lost too much blood. If he had been found in time he might have pulled through. Wonderful vitality. Ought to be dead now, by the books. Still, there’s a chance.”
“I never thought,” said Uncle Sam to Cyrano de Bergerac, as the ambulance bore away its unconscious burden, “that I would ever be so sorry at anything that could happen to Lars Porsena—after the way he made me stop singing on my own birthday. He was one grand old fighting machine!”