tress, of tenderness and pity.

"No, I don't know him," it stammered. "He's a salesman--he was in the
store this morning--he's selling motor-cars." The first voice laughed.

"Motor-cars!" he exclaimed. "That's why he ain't scared of 'em. He
certainly saved you from that one! I seen him, Miss Briggs, and he most
certainly saved your life!"

In response to this astonishing statement I was delighted to hear a
well-trained male chorus exclaim in assent.

The voices differed; some spoke in the accents of Harvard, pure and
undefiled, some in a "down East" dialect, others suggested Italian
peanut venders and Portuguese sailors, but all agreed that the life of
Miss Briggs had been saved by myself. I had intended coming to, but
on hearing the chorus working so harmoniously I decided I had better
continue unconscious.

Then a new voice said importantly: "The marks on his suitcase are 'F.
F., New York."

I appreciated instantly that to be identified as Fletcher Farrell meant
humiliation and disaster. The other Fletcher Farrells would soon return
to New Bedford. They would learn that in their absence I had been spying
upon the home I had haughtily rejected. Besides, one of the chorus
might remember that three years back Fletcher Farrell had been a popular
novelist and might recognize me, and Miss Briggs would discover I was
not an automobile agent and that I had lied to her. I saw that I must
continue to lie to her. I thought of names beginning with "F," and
selected "Frederick Fitzgibbon." To christen yourself while your eyes
are shut and your head rests on a curb-stone is not easy, and later I
was sorry I had not called myself Fairchild as being more aristocratic.
But then it was too late. As Fitzgibbon I had come back to life, and as
Fitzgibbon I must remain.

When I opened my eyes I found the first voice belonged to a policeman
who helped me to my feet and held in check the male chorus. The object
of each was to lead me to a drink. But instead I turned dizzily to Miss
Briggs. She was holding my hat and she handed it to me. Her lovely eyes
were filled with relief and her charming voice with remorse.

"I--I can't possibly thank you," she stammered. "Are you badly hurt?"

I felt I had never listened to words so original and well chosen. In
comparison, the brilliant and graceful speeches I had placed on the lips
of my heroines became flat and unconvincing.

I assured her I was not at all hurt and endeavored, jauntily, to