of the shoulder. Harvey and I were beside him almost as soon as the cross-walk policeman. The three of us carried him to the side-walk.

“No need to call an ambulance, officer,” said Harvey. “I’m a physician and the man is a friend of mine.”

“Bedad, thin, the dawg is a friend of mine,” said the big fellow. “Couldn’t ye take him along too, sir?”

“Well—rather,” said Harvey heartily. “Where is he?” He turned to look for the dog.

Billy Wigg came crawling toward us. Never tell me that dogs have no souls. The eyes in Billy’s shaggy little face yearned with a more than human passion of anxiety and love, as, gasping with pain—for he had been cruelly shaken—he dragged himself to his partner’s face. At the touch of the warm, eager tongue, Solomon John’s eyes opened. He stretched out his hand and buried it in the heavy fur.

“Hello, Billy,” he said weakly. “I was afraid you were hurt. Are you all right, old boy?” And Billy, burrowing a wet nose in Solomon John’s neck, wept for joy with loud whines.

Some rapid and expert wire-pulling on the part of Harvey landed our pair of friends in a private hospital, where Solomon John proved a most grateful and gentle patient, and Billy Wigg a most tumultuous one until arrangement was made for the firm to occupy one and the same cot. Then he became tractable, even enduring the indignity of a flannel jacket and splints with a sort of humorous tolerance. Every day Harvey came and gazed soulfully into Solomon John’s glazed eyes—which is a curious form of treatment for broken collar-bone, not sanctioned by any of the authorities who have written on the subject. It soon became evident that Harvey didn’t care anything about the rib; he had other designs. On a day he came to the point.

“Solomon John, would you like to have your sight back?”

The blind man sat up in his cot and pressed his hands to his head.

“Do you mean it, sir?” he gasped. “You—you wouldn’t go to fool an old man about such a thing?”

“Will you let me operate on you to-morrow?”

“Anything you think best, sir. I don’t quite seem to take it all in yet, sir—not the whole sense of it. But if it does come out right,” added Solomon John in the simplicity of his soul, “won’t Billy Wigg be surprised and tickled!”

Billy Wigg raged mightily and rent the garments of his best friends, because he was shut out during the operation. When he was admitted after it was over he howled tumultuously, because Solomon John was racked with ether sickness, which he mistook for the throes of approaching dissolution. Followed then weeks during which Solomon John wore a white bandage, in place of the old green eye-shade, and at frequent intervals sang a solemn but joyous chant which Billy Wigg accompanied with impatient yelps, because he couldn’t make out what it meant:

It was a long, nerve-trying wait, but the day finally came when the white bandages were removed. After the first gasp of rapture, Solomon John looked about him eagerly.

“Let me see my dog,” he said. “Billy, is this you?” as the junior partner looked with anxious and puzzled eyes into his face. “Well, you’re certainly a mighty handsome doggy, old boy.” (Billy Wigg was homelier than a stack of hay in January, but the eyes that looked on him were as those of a mother when she sees her first babe).