On a busy Manhattan thoroughfare, the artist Andy Golub painted the bodies of nude models.
"He's coming," said Jerry, as they heard a thump that was Andy jumping down the last two steps of the front stairs.
Andy put his hand to his forehead as if in a dream, and then—let me see; what did he do?
They had covered about two miles when they came to a bend in the road, and there Andy called a halt.
"I'll be up in a minute, Andy," cried Cullin to his aid, already scrambling up the iron ladder for his station on the roof.
In the meantime those in the carriage had driven along the country road until they came upon the unconscious form of Andy.
