the asphalt of the streets, even over the lawns of
adjacent houses, tree trunks and flower beds adding more things to be
dodged. At one corner, where the crowd was thick, we saw a big man being
wound to a pole by paper serpentines. Yelling and capering, the masked
dancers milled around and around him, winding the gay ribbons, while
others with confetti and the Spanish cascarones, tried to snow him
under. As we came up, a big fist wagged and Bill Capehart's voice
roared,

"Hold on! Too much is a-plenty!"

He tore himself loose, streaming with paper strips, bent and filled his
fists from the confetti at his feet. His tormentors howled and dropped
back as much as they could for the hemming crowd; he rushed them,
heaving paper ammunition in a hail-storm, and reached us in two or three
jumps.

"Golly!" he roared, "Me for a cyclone cellar! This is a riot. You ain't
in costume, either. Wonder they wouldn't pick on you."

With the words they did. I put Barbara behind me, and was conscious only
of a blinding snow of paper flakes, the punch and slap of dusters, in an
uproar of horns and bells.

"Good deal like fighting a swarm of bees in your shirt-tail with a
willow switch," old Bill panted at my shoulder. "Gosh!" as the snapping
of firecrackers let loose beneath our feet. "Some o' these mosquito-net
skirts'll get afire next--then there'll be hell a-popping!"

Close at hand there was a louder report, as of a giant cracker, and at
that Barbara sagged against me. I whirled and put an arm about her.
Bill grabbed her from me, and lifted her above the pressure of the
crowd. I charged ahead, shouting,

"Gangway! Let us through!"

Willing enough, the mob could not make room for passage until my
shoulder, lowered to strike at the breast, forced a way, that closed in
the instant Bill gained through. It was football tactics, with me
bucking the line, Bill carrying the ball. Fortunately, the bunch was a
good-natured festival gathering, or my rough work might have brought us
trouble. As it was, a short, stiff struggle took us to the outer fringe
of the mob.

"How is she? What happened?" I grunted, coming to a stop.

"Search me." Bill twisted around to look at the white face that lay back
on his shoulder, with closed lids. Three strokes chimed from the city
hall tower. Barbara's eyes flashed open; as the last stroke trembled in
the air, Barbara's voice came, sharp with breathless urgence,

"A quarter of ten! Quick--get me to t