"How is it?" P. Sybarite asked solicitously.
"Aches," replied the boy huddled in his corner of the cab.
Then he found spirit enough for a pale, thin smile, faintly visible in
a milky splash from an electric arc rocking by the vehicle in its
flight.
"Aches like hell," he added. "Makes one feel a bit sickish."
"Anything I can do?"
"No--thanks. I'll be all right--as soon as I find a surgeon to draw
that slug and plaster me up."
"That's the point: where am I to take you?"
"Home--the Monastery--Forty-third Street."
"Bachelor apartments?"
"Yes; I herd by my lonesome."
"Praises be!" muttered P. Sybarite, relieved.
For several minutes he had been entertaining a vision of himself
escorting this battered and bloody young person to a home of shrieking
feminine relations, and poignantly surmising the sort of welcome apt
to be accorded the good Samaritan in such instances.
And while he was about it, he took time briefly to offer up thanks
that the shock of his wound seemed to have sobered the boy completely.
Opening the door, he craned his neck out to establish communication
with the ear of the chauffeur; to whom he repeated the address, adding
an admonition to avoid the Monastery until certain he had shaken off
pursuit, if any; and dodged back.
At this juncture the taxicab was slipping busily up Eighth Avenue,
having gained that thoroughfare via Forty-first Street. A little later
it turned eastwards....
"No better, I presume?" P. Sybarite enquired.
"Not so's you'd notice it," the boy returned bravely.... "First time
anything like this ever happened to me," he went on. "Funny
sensation--precisely as if somebody had lammed me for a home run--with
a steel girder for a bat ..."
"Must be tough!" said P. Sybarite blankly, experiencing a qualm at the
thought of a soft-nosed bullet mushrooming through living flesh.
"Guess I can stand it.... Where are we?"