ure, ten feet down the drive, the
machine close upon it; there was time for a man to spring aside; there
was no time to rescue a child. A lightning wave of repulsion flooded
him. "Have I got to throw myself down there and get maimed--for a fool
child whom everybody detests?" Without words the thought flooded him,
and then in a strong defiance, the utter honesty of his soul caught
him. "I won't! I won't!" he shouted, and was conscious of the clamor
of many voices, of a rushing movement, of a man's scream across the
tumult: "It's too late--for God's sake _don't_!"

It was a day later when he opened his eyes. Dick Marston sat there.

"Shut up," ordered Dick.

"I haven't----"

"No, and you won't--you're not to talk. Shut up. That's what you're
to do."

The eyes closed; he was inadequate to argument. In five minutes they
opened again.

"None of your eloquence now," warned Dick.

"One thing----"

"No," firmly.

"But, Dick, it's torturing me. Was the child killed?"

Dick Marston's face looked curious. "Great Scott! don't you know what
you----"

McBirney groaned inwardly. "Yes, I know. I was a coward. But I've
got to know if--the kid--was killed."

"Coward!" gasped Dick--and Geoffrey put out his shaking hand.

"In mercy, Dick"--he was catching his breath, flushing, laboring with
each word--"don't--talk about--Was the boy--killed?"

"Killed, no, sound as a nut--but you----"

"That's all," said McBirney, and his eyes closed, and he turned his
face to the wall. But he did not go to sleep. He was trying to meet
life with self-respect gone. The last thing he remembered was that
second of utter rebellion against wrecking his strength, his good
muscles--he had not thought of his life--to save the child. There had
been no time to choose; his past, his character, had chosen for him,
and they had branded him as that impossible thing, a coward. He put up
his hand and felt bandages on his head; he must have got a whack after
all in saving his precious skin. He remembered now. "Didn't jump
quick enough, I suppose," he thought, with a sneer at the man in whose
body he lived, the man who was himself, the man who was a coward.
After a while he heard Dick Marston stir. He was bending over him.

"Got to go to dinner, old man," Dick said. "I wish you'd let me tell
you what they all think about you."

McBirney shook his head impatiently, and Dick sighed heavily, and then
in a moment the door shut softl