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 was uninjured, while the milk wagon seemed a total loss. The sturdy little automobile, substantial as the character of Milton Morris himself, had plowed straight through it and over it, halting, careened against a trolley pole, with the two wheels on one side spinning idly a few inches from the ground. The horses, kicking themselves free of the wreckage with frightened snorts, dashed madly off. The Swiss driver woke up, took one look at the chaos round him, and plunged wildly away. George was still clinging stoutly to his wheel, but Mr. Gilman had disappeared.

"My Lord! Oh, my Lord!" groaned the young man, out of the chaos, but just then there began a mysterious agitation among the milk cans. George, who by this time had crawled down from his seat, began frantically to toss the cans aside. He found his late passenger underneath, drenched by the white fluid.

"Mr. Gilman!" he cried in anguished concern, "are you hurt?"

"I think not," replied the banker in tones of thick disgust that issued through a film of milk. "No, not hurt!" but as he said it, his verdict was contradicted by a widening circle of crimson which appeared about a contused wound over his right eye.

"Oh, but you are!" discovered George in deepening distress. "You are. My Lord! This is