stick,
and all. The inquiry that ensued as to his years and home setting, the
while Gimpy was undergoing the incredible experience of being washed and
fed regularly three times a day, set in motion the train of events that
was at present hurrying him toward Coney Island in midwinter, with a
snow-storm draping the land in white far and near, as the train sped
seaward. He gasped as he reviewed the hurrying events of the week: the
visit of the doctor from Sea Breeze, who had scrutinized his ankle as if
he expected to find some of the swag of the last raid hidden somewhere
about it. Gimpy never took his eyes off him during the examination. No
word or cry escaped him when it hurt most, but his bright, furtive eyes
never left the doctor or lost one of his movements. "Just like a weasel
caught in a trap," said the doctor, speaking of his charge afterward.

But when it was over, he clapped Gimpy on the shoulder and said it was all
right. He was sure he could help.

"Have him at the Subway to-morrow at twelve," was his parting direction;
and Gimpy had gone to bed to dream that he was being dragged down the
stone stairs by three helmeted men, to be fed to a monster breathing fire
and smoke at the foot of the stairs.

Now his wondering journey was disturbed by a cheery voice beside him.
"Well, bub, ever see that before?" and the doctor pointed to the gray
ocean line dead ahead. Gimpy had not seen it, but he knew well enough what
it was.

"It's the river," he said, "that I cross when I go to Italy."

"Right!" and his companion held out a helping hand as the train pulled up
at the end of the journey. "Now let's see how we can navigate."

And, indeed, there was need of seeing about it. Right from the step of the
train the snow lay deep, a pathless waste burying street and sidewalk out
of sight, blocking the closed and barred gate of Dreamland, of radiant
summer memory, and stalling the myriad hobby-horses of shows that slept
their long winter sleep. Not a whinny came on the sharp salt breeze. The
strident voice of the carpenter's saw and the rat-tat-tat of his hammer
alone bore witness that there was life somewhere in the white desert. The
doctor looked in dismay at Gimpy's brace and high shoe, and shook his
head.

"He never can do it. Hello, there!" An express wagon had come into view
around the corner of the shed. "Here's a job for you." And before he could
have said Jack Robinson, Gimpy felt himself hoisted bodily into the