“Could you see plainly?”
“Oh, no, it was dark,—how could it be otherwise, inside the earth?”
It was hopeless to dissuade him. We talked for some time, and outside his hallucination he was keen and quick-witted. But whatever gave him his idea of his strange adventure he thoroughly believed in it and nothing would shake that belief.
“What are you going to do when you get out of here?” I asked him.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But I can’t help feeling that the world owes me a living—especially after I’ve fallen through it!”
I laughed, for his humor was infectious, and I felt pretty sure he would make good somehow. He was about thirty, I judged, and though not a brawny man, he seemed possessed of a wiry strength.
The doctors, he told me, assured him of speedily returning health but would give no definite promise regarding the return of his memory.
“So,” he said, cheerfully, “I’ll get along without it, and start out fresh. Why, I haven’t even a name!”
“You can acquire one at small expense,” I advised him.
“Yes; I’ve part of it now. I shall take Rivers as a surname, because they pulled me out of the East River, they say.”