“But, say——” The policeman’s voice was now almost plaintive.
Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman, having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved his feelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locust stick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile’s hooter, in a sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. The policeman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in the street.
“Put him to bed,” said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couch in the studio. “You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticed that you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grossly out of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day.”
“I’m not so young as I was, ma’am,” protested George. “When I was in the harmy I was a fine figure of a man.”
“The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,” commented Mrs. Porter. “Beer?”
A grateful smile irradiated George’s face.
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s very kind of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do.”
“The man appears a perfect imbecile,” said Mrs. Porter, turning abruptly to Kirk. “I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to beer and he babbles.”
“I think he thought you were offering him a drink,” suggested Kirk. “As a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn’t hurt him, after the shock he has had.”
“On no account. The worst thing possible.”