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 tion as he spoke. "You mustn't do that," he continued. "You'll spoil all my plans for you."

Bennet again essayed to rise, the effect of the drops administered to him now having fully cleared his brain. With the attempt, however, he felt a stinging pain in his head, lifted his hand to ease it and slowly pulled it away as he touched the huge bandages in which his head was swathed.

"What's the matter, Doctor?" he asked.

"Nothing, only I've just saved St. Peter the disagreeable task of kicking a perfectly good athlete out of Heaven and preserved real promising football material from a burning."

"Yes, I know all that rot but what am I doing here? and where's the girl—where's the mob—who hit me with that brick?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "I know you're better now. You're a poor hero, even if you did do a good job in rescuing two pretty girls out of a pretty mess."

"Two girls!—Two girls!—Why, I only saw one." Bennet answered his brain now flashing back pictures of the mob and the struggle.

"All the same—two or one—what does it matter?" the doctor replied shaking his head in a whimsical manner. "You're a lost child now Bennet. You saw beauty in distress, looked into her soulful eyes—and yielded to Circe's power—plunged into a fight that was none of your affair,—got your head cracked—and you'll be loony