The Coming of Bill | Page 3

minutes before he had
almost robbed himself of this spectacle by going into a moving-picture
palace.
Mrs. Porter was annoyed. She had never run over anything before
except a few chickens, and she regarded the incident as a blot on her
escutcheon. She was incensed with this idiot who had flung himself
before her car, not reflecting in her heat that he probably had a
pre-natal tendency to this sort of thing inherited from some ancestor
who had played "last across" in front of hansom cabs in the streets of
London.
She bent over George and passed experienced hands over his portly
form. For this remarkable woman was as competent at first aid as at
anything else. The citizens gathered silently round in a circle.
"It was your fault," she said to her victim severely. "I accept no liability
whatever. I did not run into you. You ran into me. I have a jolly good

mind to have you arrested for attempted suicide."
This aspect of the affair had not struck Mr. Pennicut. Presented to him
in these simple words, it checked the recriminatory speech which, his
mind having recovered to some extent from the first shock of the
meeting, he had intended to deliver. He swallowed his words, awed. He
felt dazed and helpless. Mrs. Porter had that effect upon men.
Some more citizens arrived.
"No bones broken," reported Mrs. Porter, concluding her examination.
"You are exceedingly fortunate. You have a few bruises, and one knee
is slightly wrenched. Nothing to signify. More frightened than hurt.
Where do you live?"
"There," said George meekly.
"Where?"
"Them studios."
"No. 90?"
"Yes, ma'am." George's voice was that of a crushed worm.
"Are you an artist?"
"No, ma'am. I'm Mr. Winfield's man."
"Whose?"
"Mr. Winfield's, ma'am."
"Is he in?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll fetch him. And if the policeman comes along and wants to know
why you're lying there, mind you tell him the truth, that you ran into

me."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well. Don't forget."
"No, ma'am."
She crossed the street and rang the bell over which was a card hearing
the name of "Kirk Winfield". Mr. Pennicut watched her in silence.
Mrs. Porter pressed the button a second time. Somebody came at a
leisurely pace down the passage, whistling cheerfully. The door
opened.
It did not often happen to Lora Delane Porter to feel insignificant, least
of all in the presence of the opposite sex. She had well-defined views
upon man. Yet, in the interval which elapsed between the opening of
the door and her first words, a certain sensation of smallness overcame
her.
The man who had opened the door was not, judged by any standard of
regularity of features, handsome. He had a rather boyish face, pleasant
eyes set wide apart, and a friendly mouth. He was rather an outsize in
young men, and as he stood there he seemed to fill the doorway.
It was this sense of bigness that he conveyed, his cleanness, his
magnificent fitness, that for the moment overcame Mrs. Porter.
Physical fitness was her gospel. She stared at him in silent appreciation.
To the young man, however, her forceful gaze did not convey this
quality. She seemed to him to be looking as if she had caught him in
the act of endeavouring to snatch her purse. He had been thrown a little
off his balance by the encounter.
Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, and a
man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing a
ginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by

a masterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not
guessing that her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and
respect.
Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly to
the matter in hand.
"Mr. Kirk Winfield?"
"Yes."
"Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who
ambles about New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a
desert island? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman,
clean-shaven, dressed in black."
"That sounds like George Pennicut."
"I have no doubt that that is his name. I did not inquire. It did not
interest me. My name is Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. This man of yours
has just run into my automobile."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I cannot put it more lucidly. I was driving along the street when this
weak-minded person flung himself in front of my car. He is out there
now. Kindly come and help him in."
"Is he hurt?"
"More frightened than hurt. I have examined him. His left knee appears
to be slightly wrenched."
Kirk Winfield passed a hand over his left forehead and followed her.
Like George, he found Mrs. Porter a trifle overwhelming.
Out