"Number three hundred and one—" His voice trailed off into silence.
"He's dead," said Beany.
"What shall we do?" said Hen. "He's not dead, but pretty close to it. We will have to get him to a hospital, and wait for him to give the street that house is on. That means the kid will be murdered before that time, I suppose. Gee, it's awful."
A taxi rounded the square, and stopped close to them. The driver got out.
"It's him!" said Hen. "I know that fellow." As the driver walked toward them, he recognized Hen.
"Hullo!" he said. "What's new?"
"Look here," said Hen. "We got to get this man to the hospital.
A fellow came along and did for him."
"Great Scott!" said the driver, peering into the taxi, where the electric light shone on the huddled figure in Beany's arms.
A slight, boyish figure came running along the walk. It was
Porky, out of breath, and excited.
"I thought you would have him safe in a hospital," he complained.