My first glance convinced me it was not Amory Manning, though I had not thought that it was.
This man had thin, light hair and vacant-looking, weak eyes. He was smooth-shaven and his voice was peculiar,—a voice sufficient to identify anyone, I felt sure, but it was not a voice I had heard before.
No; I didn’t know him, and a careful scrutiny made me positive I did not.
But it was a sorry case. Apparently the man was of good education and accustomed to cultured surroundings. Moreover, he had a sense of humor which had not deserted him, along with his memory.
I sat by his bedside, and I remained rather longer than I had intended, for I became interested in his story, and the time slipped by.
“You see,” he said, fixing me with his queer-looking eyes, “I fell through the earth.”
“You what?”
“I did. I fell through the earth, and it was a long, long fall.”
“Well, yes, eight thousand miles, I’m told.”
“Oh, no,” and he was almost pettish, “I didn’t fall through the middle of it.”