"A bright specimen of his class!" cried one.
"Blowed if it ain't Dr. Courtney of St. Clair. He'd ought to know better," chimed in another.
Curbing with difficulty his plunging steed, the individual referred to flung reins to his groom and leaped into the surging sea of scowling countenances about him. He made for the curb-stone, where, supported by a policeman and closed around by a gaping crowd— effectually excluding the air—the little sufferer lay.
As usual, it occurred to no one to render assistance, only to ask questions and pass comments. With a strong arm thrusting the loiterers aside to right and left, the unwitting cause of the disturbance bent anxiously over the little unfortunate. Passing a skilful hand about body and limbs, he said to himself, "A broken leg," and to the lad, "All right, my boy, we'll soon set you right again."
Not far off, of course, was a cabby, eager to bear away the child, glad to secure a "fare," though suffering or death placed it in his hands.
"They're all the same," remarked one in the crowd. "'It's an ill wind blows no one any good.' Doctor, parson, cabby, undertaker. Death of one's godsend t'others. All living one on another."
"What's the sense of standing and prating there, you big fool!" exclaimed the doctor.
Raising the child in his arms, he hustled the men with his elbow and made with his charge towards the cab. Laying the manly urchin, who had uttered no cry, and was contracting his face to restrain the tears, on the floor of the vehicle, "To the hospital," he cried, "as gently as you like," and was stepping in himself.
"You'll just stay here and answer to us," hissed a coarse voice in his ear as the cab moved forward. The
