his time an individual in a sort of undress uniform, beginning at
the top in an equivocal Tam-o'-Shanter hat, sauntered into the
_cul-de-sac_ to which Sapps Court was an appendix. He appeared to be
unconcerned in human affairs, and indeed independent of Time, Space, and
Circumstance. He addressed a creature that was hanging upside down on
some railings, apparently by choice.

"What sort of a name does this here archway go by?" said he, without
acute curiosity.

"That's Sappses Court," said the creature, remaining inverted. "Say it
ain't?" He appeared to identify the uniform he was addressing, and
added:--"There ain't a fire down that Court, 'cos I knows and I'm a
telling of yer. You'd best hook it." The uniform hooked nothing. Then,
in spite of the creature--who proved, right-side-up, to be Michael
Ragstroar--shouting after him--"You ain't wanted down that Court!" he
entered it deliberately, whistling a song then popular, whose singer
wished he was with Nancy, he did, he did, in a second floor, with a
small back-door, to live and die with Nancy.

Having identified Sapps, he seemed to know quite well which house he
wanted, for he went straight to the end and knocked at No. 7.

"Sakes alive!" said Aunt M'riar, responsive to the knock. "There's no
fire here."

"I'm off duty," said the fireman briefly. "I've come to tell you about
your young customer at the Hospital."

Aunt M'riar behaved heroically. There was only, to her thinking, one
chance in ten that this strange, inexplicable messenger should have
brought any other news to their house than that of its darling's death;
but that one chance was enough to make her choke back a scream, lest
Uncle Mo should have one moment of needless despair. And else--it shot
across her mind in a second--might not a sudden escape from despair even
be fatal to that weak heart of his? So Aunt M'riar pulled to the door
behind her to say, with an effort:--"Is he dead?" The universe swam
about outside while she stood still, and something hummed in her head.
But through it she heard the fireman say:--"Not he!" as of one endowed
with a great vitality, one who would take a deal of killing. When he
added:--"He's spoke," though she believed her ears certainly, for she
ran back into the kitchen crying out:--"He's spoke, Mo, he's spoke!" she
did it with a misgiving that the only interpretation she could see her
way to _must_ be wrong--was altogether too good to be true.

Uncle Mo fairly shout