windows were ruins, for the heavy car had struck fairly at the angle of sidewalk and entrance. The car itself was sadly damaged, although on close inspection Clif decided that it had got off pretty well. Collision with the iron post had simultaneously demolished post, and car bumper, and the subsequent impact had crumpled in the radiator, and torn away one mudguard. Also one wheel was broken. The constable began to look for witnesses and Clif edged swiftly toward the outer rim of the throng. The missing Wattles was not to be seen. He hurried back across the street, now fairly choked by automobiles, and saw a man in a black brilliantine coat conversing with Loring Deane.
"I wonder if you'd mind pushing me back to the drugstore," said Loring as Clif joined him. "Poor old Wattles has fainted, he says."
The drug clerk assented, his gaze darting curiously across the street. "Yeah, he was just going out when the smash came, and he dropped in a heap. We got him 'round all right in a jiffy, but he's still sort of wobbly. I'll run across and see what's happened."
Wattles was a woebegone looking object when they reached the drug store. Seated decorously erect in a chair, his derby clasped fixedly on his knees, he was the color of yellow parchment and his long face was the unhappiest thing Clif had ever seen. Even when the wheel chair rolled toward him Wattles's gloom failed to lighten. He moistened his lips with an effort and:
