Now it was coming to him. He fell off the porch! He must have
had a jag on or he never would have fallen. He did things to his ankle
in falling. He remembered the gentle giant picking him up as if he had
been a baby and putting him here, but where was here? Ah! Now he
remembered! He was on his way to Opal Verrons. A bet. An elopement for
the prize! Great stakes. He had lost of course. What a fool! If it
hadn't been for his ankle he might have got to a trolley car or train
somehow and made a garage. Money would have taken him there in time. He
was vexed that he had lost. It would have been great fun, and he had
the name of always winning when he set out to do so. But then, perhaps
it was just as well--Verrons was a good fellow as men went--he liked
him, and he was plain out and out fond of Opal just at present. It
would have been a dirty shame to play the trick behind his back. Still,
if Opal wanted to run away with him it was up to him to run of course.
Opal was rare sport and he couldn't stand the idea of Smart-Aleck
McMarter, or that conceited Percy Emerson getting there first. He
wondered which had won. It made his fury rise to think of either, and
he had promised the lady neither of them should. What was she thinking
of him by now that he had sent her no word of his delay? That was
inexcusable. He must attend to it at once.