r young men. With the naive conceit of
twenty-four she ignored the actual mathematics of fifty years of clean
living and thinking, missed the physiological fact that often men at
fifty are stronger and tougher than men in the twenties. They never
waste energy; their precision of movement and deliberation of thought
conserve the residue against the supreme moment.

As a parenthesis: To a young woman what is a hero? Generally something
conjured out of a book she has read; the unknown, handsome young man
across the street; the leading actor in a society drama; the idol of
the movie. A hero must of necessity be handsome; that is the
first essential. If he happens to be brave and debonair, rich and
aristocratic, so much the better. Somehow, to be brave and to be heroic
are not actually accepted synonyms in certain youthful feminine minds.
For instance, every maid will agree that her father is brave; but tell
her he is a hero because he pays his bills regularly and she will accept
the statement with a smile of tolerant indulgence.

Thus Kitty viewed Cutty's activities with a thrill of amazed wonder. Had
the young man hoisted Cutty to his shoulders her feeling would have been
one of exultant admiration. Let age crown its garnered wisdom; youth has
no objections to that; but feats of physical strength--that is poaching
upon youth's preserves. Kitty was not conscious of the instinctive
resentment. At that moment Cutty was to her the most extraordinary old
man in the world.

"Forward!" he whispered. "I want to know why I am doing this movie
stunt." The journey began with Kitty in the lead. She prayed that no one
would see them as they passed the two landing windows. Below and above
were vivid squares of golden light. She regretted the drizzle; no
clothes-laden lines intervened to obscure their progress. Someone in
the rear of the houses in Seventy-ninth Street might observe the
silhouettes. The whole affair must be carried off secretly or their
efforts would come to nothing.

Once inside the kitchen Cutty shifted his burden into his arms, the way
one carries a child, and followed Kitty into the unused bedroom. He did
not wait for the story, but asked for the telephone.

"I'm going to call for a surgeon at the Lambs. He's just back from
France and knows a lot about broken heads. And we can trust him
absolutely. I told him to wait there until I called."

"Cutty, you're a dear. I don't wonder father loved you."

Presently he