Midday heat had all but cleared the plaza. As he looked about, the helper saw no aid, until his eye fell upon the waiting cab. He fairly bounded up the stairs, calling something to the coachman.
“No,” grunted that toiler, with the characteristic discourtesy of the Caracuñan lower class, and jerked his head backward toward his fare.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Unspeakable Perk eagerly, in Spanish, turning to the dim recess of the victoria. “Might I—Oh, it’s you!” He seized Carroll by the arm. “I want your cab.”
“Indeed!” said Carroll. “Well, you’re cool enough about it.”
“And your help,” added the other.
“What for?”
“Do you have to ask questions? The man may be dying—is dying, I think.”
“All right,” said Carroll promptly. “What’s to be done?”
“Get him home. Help me carry him to the cab.”
Between them, the two men lifted the heavy, mumbling cripple, carried him up the steps with a rush, and deposited him in the cab, while the driver was still angrily expostulating. The beggar was shivering now, and the cold sweat rolled down his face. His bearers placed themselves on each side of him. Perkins gave an order to the driver, who seemed to object, and a rapid-fire argument ensued.