And in a way this was so; in another it wasn’t. It was not the wound that was to blame, the doctors were positive about that; but Coogan, it was pitifully evident, was not the same. Physically, at the end of a month, he left the hospital apparently as well as he had ever been in his life; but mentally, somewhere, a cog had slipped. His brain seemed warped and weakened, simple as a child’s in its workings; his memory fogged and dazed, full of indefinite, intangible snatches, vague, indeterminate glimpses of his life before. One thing seemed to cling to him, to predominate, to sway him—the Devil’s Slide.
Regan and Carleton talked to him, trying to guide his thoughts and stimulate his memory.
“You remember you used to drive an engine, don’t you, Chick?” asked Carleton.
“Engine?” Coogan nodded. “Yes; in the Devil’s Slide.”
“505,” said Regan quickly. “You know old 505.”
Coogan shook his head.
Carleton tried another tack.
“You were in a bad accident, Coogan, one night. You were in the cab of the engine when she went to smash. Do you remember that?”
“The smash was on the Devil’s Slide,” said Coogan.
“That’s it,” cried Carleton. “I knew you’d remember.”