Then he found spirit enough for a pale, thin smile, faintly visible in a milky splash from an electric arc rocking by the vehicle in its flight.
"Aches like hell," he added. "Makes one feel a bit sickish."
"Anything I can do?"
"No—thanks. I'll be all right—as soon as I find a surgeon to draw that slug and plaster me up."
"That's the point: where am I to take you?"
"Home—the Monastery—Forty-third Street."
"Bachelor apartments?"
"Yes; I herd by my lonesome."
"Praises be!" muttered P. Sybarite, relieved.
For several minutes he had been entertaining a vision of himself escorting this battered and bloody young person to a home of shrieking feminine relations, and poignantly surmising the sort of welcome apt to be accorded the good Samaritan in such instances.