of his own warmer ones. No use pretending that she was a sportsman before him any more. He knew how absurdly outfitted she was. He had discovered her ridiculous devices—the newspapers she had sat up late last night to sew inside the inadequate green coat, the pair of stockings with their feet cut off she had used for wristers, the China silk shirtwaist she had wound tightly around her neck for an extra muffler, the fragment of knitting from her workbag she had pinned across her chest . . . Oh, he could wink with good reason now—sprained ankle, fainting spell, and all!
"Oh, well," she sighed, resigned, and made an attempt to shrug. It wasn't successful. It ended in a contorted smile.
"Are you in pain?" inquired Bord Mathewson.
"Oh, don't worry," Edna retorted. "I'm all right. I'm just where I belong now. This is my natural position—on my back. I'm used to it," bitterly she announced. Then, "Tell me how you got me here, and how you're going to get me out. Oh, I'm a great sort of a sportsman!"
It was not until after Edna had partaken of bread and hot bacon, apple pie and cheese, fed to her bit by bit, as if she was a ridiculous young bird in a nest (Mr. Mathewson gruffly forbade
