Joe bristled like a ruffled sparrow. "Let's see you throw me off!" When
George good-naturedly took him at his word, Joe clinched with him and
managed to get a half-Nelson hold on him. Joe always went at things in
dead earnest, anyway. Bob and Betty, laughing and shouting, hopped
gleefully around the swaying wrestlers, Bob yelling encouragement to
George, and Betty yelling just as hard for Joe.

Suddenly--was it just Bob's imagination?--something seemed to give a
wiggle in his pocket--then a warning flop. It must be that magic button!

Bob jumped, gave a snort of surprise, and jammed his hand into his
pocket. What had got into the button anyway?

Then an idea flashed across his mind--perhaps the Safety button was
trying to warn him. To be sure, if the wrestlers went down hard on the
cement sidewalk, it might mean a broken skull! In his hurry to get them
off the walk and over on the grass, Bob lost his head. He made the
mistake of trying to do it by force; he caught hold of George's elbow,
and got a sharp dig in the pit of his stomach for his pains.

"Hey, fellows--danger!" he yelled, when he could catch his breath. "Get
over on the grass--look out!"

His warnings came too late. George, much the bigger of the two, got a
hip-lock on Joe, and, forgetting everything else in his struggle to "lay
him out," gave a sudden heave that sent Joe sprawling on his back. His
head struck the sidewalk with a thud.

That was all. Joe lay like a lump of lead.

"He's _dead_!" screamed Betty wildly. She threw herself at the gasping
George. "You--you've _killed_ him!"

George, puffing and blowing from his struggle, held her at arm's length.
A big policeman suddenly came around the corner. "Here, what's all
this?" he asked sternly, bending over the fallen wrestler.

"He struck on the back of his head," spoke up Bob. "They were
wrestling--just in fun, you know--and Joe struck his head on the
sidewalk. Is--is he dead?"

"Small thanks to you young rascals if he isn't," growled the officer.
"Crazy Indians, wrestling on a cement walk! Where does he live?"

He lifted the limp body in his arms and hurried to the Widow Schmidt's
modest little cottage with the green blinds and the neatly scrubbed
doorstep. George and Bob, feeling very sick, trailed sadly along after
him; they hated to think of the look that would come into the Widow
Schmidt's motherly face. Joe was all she had in the world.

Betty, womanlike, was first to think of the doc