he ambulance and the crowding Arcadians. He administered a
stimulant. Lars Porsena fluttered his eyes weakly.

"Stand back, you idiots! Bash these fools' faces in for 'em, some one!"
said the medical man. He bent over the watchman. "Who did it, Lars?"

Lars made a vain effort to speak. The doctor gave him another sip of
restorative and took a pull himself.

"Try again, old man. You're badly hurt and you may not get another
chance. Did you know him?"

Lars gathered all his strength to a broken speech:

"No.... Bank ... Found window ... Midnight ... nearly.... Shot me....
Didn't see him." He fell back on Uncle Sam's starry vest.

"Ambulance coming," said Uncle Sam. "Will he live, doc?"

Doc shook his head doubtfully.

"Poor chance. Lost too much blood. If he had been found in time he might
have pulled through. Wonderful vitality. Ought to be dead now, by the
books. Still, there's a chance."

"I never thought," said Uncle Sam to Cyrano de Bergerac, as the
ambulance bore away its unconscious burden, "that I would ever be so
sorry at anything that could happen to Lars Porsena--after the way he
made me stop singing on my own birthday. He was one grand old fighting
machine!"

CHAPTER VII

STATES-GENERAL

"And they hae killed Sir Charlie Hay
And laid the wyte on Geordie."

--_Old Ballad._

That the master's eye is worth two servants had ever been Lake's
favorite maxim. He had not yet gone to bed when the message reached him,
where he kept his masterly eye on the proper closing up of the ballroom.
He came through the crowd now, shouldering his way roughly, still in his
police costume--helmet, tunic and belt. In his wake came the sheriff,
who had just arrived, scorching to the scene on his trusty wheel.

On the bank steps, Lake turned to face the crowd. His strong canine jaw
was set to stubborn fighting lines; the helmet did not wholly hide the
black frown or the swollen veins at his temple.

"Come in, Thompson, and help the sheriff size the thing up--and you,
Alec"--he stabbed the air at his choice with a strong blunt finger--"and
Turnbull--you, Clarke--and you.... Bassett, you keep the door. Admit no
one!"

Lake was the local great man. Never had he appeared to such advantage to
his admirers; never had his ascendency seemed so unquestioned and so
justified. As he stood beside the sheriff in the growing light, the man
was the incarnation of power--the power of weal