"Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!"
I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shied matrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on Sister Mabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, a wife and kids wouldn't fit in at all.
We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on the back stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams on the emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyond where this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-lined throw-scarf.
"What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back.
"Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch of youngsters with her and—yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!"
"O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must."
As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a look at this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky around this young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle on top of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin' a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'.
"You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe.
"Heavens, no!" says he.
"But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on.