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top of her—Mrs. Hodge’s parcels, topped off by Mrs. Hodge’s large coat. She felt the seat above her sag, heard a surprised squeak, and deduced, correctly, that Master Hodge had just been added to the agglomeration on top of her. Though she could see nothing, except a dimlylit collection of cigarette butts, candy wrappers and one banana peel (fresh), she heard every word. Sam had stopped the engine.
    â€œGood evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said one of the most cultivated voices she had ever heard off the screen. “My abject apologies for stopping you so abruptly—”
    â€œWatdidja do it for then?” Sam asked unpleasantly. “Stealing buses, now. Think you can get to Cuba on this here?”
    He cackled; the passengers joined in loyally, the maiden lady’s shrill chuckle and Mr. Woodle’s bass guffaw rising over the rest.
    â€œJolly good,” said the voice, unconvincingly. “Yes indeed.”
    â€œBut I’m late now,” said the maiden lady indignantly. “For the bowling league. The rest of them will never forgive me.”
    â€œIllegal,” said Mr. Woodle. “Against some sort of law. Several, possibly.”
    Mrs. Hodge decided to enliven the proceedings.
    â€œDon’t you come near me,” she howled. “Take my poor little savings, if you must, but don’t lay a hand on me or me child!”
    â€œDon’t worry, madam,” said Mr. Woodle stoutly. “If he takes another step toward you, I’ll—”
    â€œâ€™Ave the law on ’im, I will,” remarked the elderly laborer vindictively. “Just you wait till we gets to town. I’ll ’ave—”
    Jess, shaking with a horrible combination of laughter and fright, realized, too late, that she was on the verge of a mighty sneeze. The floor of the bus had collected the dust of ages. Fortunately her muffled explosion was drowned by the laments of Mrs. Hodge, now on the brink of convincing hysterics, and by the general uproar. The voice of the intruder rose over the cacophany; it sounded slightly hysterical itself.
    â€œPlease, please, ladies and gentlemen! Madam, calm yourself! I wouldn’t dream,” the voice added sincerely, “of coming any closer. Look here, just let me say something, can’t you?”
    â€œSpeak up, then,” Sam growled. “Wasting our times like this. I’m behind schedule as it is, and the company—”
    â€œPlease! Sir—madam—friends—er, that is—I’m a medical man, looking for a young lady, run away from my nursing home, placed there by distraught family; thought she was recovering nicely, not dangerous, we don’t think, but—”
    â€œYou don’t think?” Mrs. Hodge repeated. “What’s this, now? You’ve let some loony escape, that’ll maybe murder the lot of us? Call yourself a doctor!”
    Jess could almost feel sorry for her pursuer; she imagined him perspiring gently, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief. But her sense of humor, ordinarily good, was soon subdued by a new fear. The tale was lame enough and, thanks to the man’s confusion, poorly told. But what if her allies believed it? The man’s accent was certainly not that of an American movie hoodlum. Would Mrs. Hodge—could Mrs. Hodge—believe that a respectable Englishman might be involved in the white slave trade?
    She need not have feared her friends’ loyalty. It was their enthusiasm that almost finished her; the discussion went on so long that she felt sure she would be asphyxiated before the intruders left. The passengers were having the time of their collective lives; by the time they got through, Jess almost believed that she had left the bus twenty miles back, “at Woodhole, right at the Burning Babe—rolling her eyes something frightful, gentlemen. I thought at the time, I thought…”
    The rolling eyes were Mrs.