“That he did, Dick. Dear heart, I hardly know whether I am in my senses or not, seeing him a-looking so blank. You try him.”
Dick came forward. “Sure you remember me, sir. Dick Dale. You cut my throat, and saved my life.”
“Cut your throat! why, that would kill you.”
“Not the way you done it. Well, sir, you ain't the man you was, that is clear; but you was a good friend to me, and there's my hand.”
“Thank you, Dick,” said Staines, and took his hand. “I don't remember YOU. Perhaps you are one of the past. The past is dead wall to me—a dark dead wall,” and he put his hands to his head with a look of distress.
Everybody there now suspected the truth, and some pointed mysteriously to their own heads.
Phoebe whispered an inquiry to the sick person.
He said a little pettishly, “All I know is, he is the kindest attendant in the ward, and very attentive.”
“Oh, then, he is in the public hospital.”
“Of course he is.”