Hopeful that the diversion might mean assistance, the waif’s howls once more became lingual.  “Dey’s tryin’ to swipe me money, boss,” he whined.  “Hope I may die if deys oin’t.”

“And where is your money?” asked the doctor.

“Wotcher want to know for?” demanded the urchin, with recurrent suspicion in his face.

“It’s in the pocket of his trousers, Dr. Armstrong,” said the nurse.

Without the slightest attempt to reassure the boy, the doctor forced loose the boy’s hold on the pocket, and inserting his hand, drew out the ten-dollar bill and a medley of small coins.

“Now,” he said, “I’ve taken your money, so they can’t.  Understand?”

The urchin began to snivel.

“Ah, you have no right to be so cruel to him,” protested Miss Durant.  “It’s perfectly natural.  Just think how we would feel if we didn’t understand.”

The doctor fumbled for his eye-glasses, but not finding them quickly enough, squinted his eyelids in an endeavour to see the speaker.  “And who are you?” he demanded.

“Why, I am—­that is—­I am Miss Durant, and—­” stuttered the girl.

Not giving her time to finish her speech, Dr. Armstrong asked, “Why are you here?” while searching for his glasses.

“I did not mean to intrude,” explained Constance, flushing, “only it was my fault, and it hurts me to see him suffer more than seems necessary.”

Abandoning the search for his glasses, and apparently unheeding of her explanation, the doctor began a hasty examination of the now naked boy, passing his hand over trunk and limbs with a firm touch that paid no heed to the child’s outcries, though each turned the onlooker faint and cold.

Her anxiety presently overcoming the sense of rebuke, the overwrought girl asked, “He will live, won’t he?”

The man straightened up from his examination.  “Except for some contusion,” he replied, “it apparently is only a leg and a couple of ribs broken.”  His voice and manner conveyed the idea that legs and ribs were but canes and corsets.  “Take him into the accident ward,” he directed to the orderlies, “and I’ll attend to him presently.”

“I will not have this boy neglected,” Constance said, excitedly and warmly.  “Furthermore, I insist that he receive instant treatment, and not wait your convenience.”

Once again Dr. Armstrong began feeling for his glasses, as he asked, “Are you connected with this hospital, Miss Durant?”

“No, but it was my carriage ran over him, and—­”

“And is it because you ran over the boy, Miss Durant,” he interrupted, “that you think it is your right to come here and issue instructions for our treatment of him?”

“It is every one’s right to see that assistance is given to an injured person as quickly as possible,” retorted the girl, though flushing, “and to protest if human suffering, perhaps life itself, is made to wait the convenience of one who is paid to save both.”