The visitor blinked.  “You wouldn’t hardly expect me to kill the story.”

“Not?  Does anybody else but me give you page ads.?”

“Well, of course, we try to favor our advertisers,” said the spectacled one nervously.

“That’s business!  I’ll be coming around again next year, if this thing is handled right, and I think my increased business might warrant a double page, then.”

“But the paper will have to carry something about it.  Too many folks saw it happen.”

“Just say that a crazy man tried to interrupt the lecture of Professor Andrew Leon Certain, the distinguished medical savant, and was locked up by the authorities.”

“But the knifing.  How is the boy?”

“Somebody’s been giving you the wrong tip.  There wasn’t any knife,” replied the Professor with a wink.  “You may send me two hundred and fifty copies of the paper.  And, by the way, do what you can to get that poor lunatic off easy, and I’ll square the bills—­with commission.”

“I’ll see the Justice first thing in the morning,” said the editor with enthusiasm.  “Much obliged, Professor Certain.  And the article will be all right.  I’ll show you a proof.  It mightn’t be a bad notion for you to drop in at the jail with me, and see Neal, the man that stab—­that interrupted the meeting, before he gets talking with any one else.”

“So it mightn’t.  But what about my leaving, now?” Professor Certain asked of the physician.

“Go ahead.  I’ll keep watch.”

Shortly after the itinerant had gone out with the exponent of free and untrammeled journalism, the boy awoke and looked about with fevered anxiety for his father.  The little nurse was beside him at once.

“You mustn’t wiggle around,” she commanded.  “Do you want a drink?”

Gratefully he drank the water which she held to his lips.

“Where’s my Dad?” he asked.

“He’s gone out.  He’ll come back pretty soon.  Lie down.”

He sank back, fixing his eyes upon her.  “Will you stay with me till he comes?”

She nodded.  “Does it hurt you much?” Her cool and tiny fingers touched his forehead, soothingly.  “You’re very hot.  I think you’ve got a little fever.”

“Don’t take your hand away.”  His eyes closed, but presently opened again.  “I think you’re very pretty,” he said shyly.

“Do you?  I like to have people think I’m pretty.  Uncle Guardy scolds me for it.  Not really, you know, but just pretending.  He says I’m vain.”

“Is that your uncle, the gentleman that fixed my arm?”

“Yes.  I call him Uncle Guardy because he’s my guardian, too.”

“I like him.  He looks good.  But I like you better.  I like you a lot.”

“Everybody does,” replied the girl with dimpling complacency.  “They can’t help it.  It’s because I’m me!”

For a moment he brooded.  “Am I going to die?” he asked quite suddenly.