“‘Is he a good man professionally?’ I inquired.
“‘He is all of that and more,’ answered Burton, and was going on to tell me that, although off duty at that moment, Dalton was hard at work superintending some repairs on the ice-machine when he was interrupted ... just as we were a few moments ago.”
“No!” I cried involuntarily, as Leyden paused; “not that!”
“Yes, Doctor ... the sequence of events was almost identical: the same explosion ... the same sensation as of being hit by a shell ... the same instant’s pause followed by cries, one louder than the others, and the same stampede for the deck, the air, freedom from torture and suffocation; but in Dalton’s case no one was quick-witted enough to think of Rhine wine or vinegar, and we had to hold him until the doctor came.... Ach!...
“It seemed a long time, Doctor, especially as the man’s strength was so great that after his first mad rush his mind grappled with the situation and he lay without a moan, without a struggle. I assisted the surgeon in the little that it was possible to do for the poor fellow, and it was while we were bathing his face that I solved the problem of his identity. For many years, Doctor, I have, whenever in England, made a tour of inspection of several large estates where I occupy a rather unique position of consulting horticulturist. To these patrons I sometimes ship from different parts of the world bulbs or plants or seeds or specimens in which I judge they will be interested. It was while on one of these visits, some of which have become more of a social than professional character, that I met Dalton, which, of course, was not his name. He was then at school, a charming boy, an only son and the heir to one of the oldest titles and most magnificent estates in England.
“This discovery did not come to me with any shock of surprise, for England is unlike America, where one often sees the thoroughbred working with his hands, and I had suspected that his was either some youthful tragedy or the baton sinister.
“Dalton lay quite still while the surgeon dressed and bandaged his face; then, as the last pin was being inserted, he said in a steady voice:
“‘How about my eyes, Doctor?’
“We’ll hope for the best, old chap,’ said this doctor, and I saw Dalton’s mouth, the only feature in sight, set with the rigidity of a death-mask. His chest filled deeply and he swallowed once or twice, and when he spoke again his voice was dry but quite firm.
“‘You think the chances are against me, don’t you, Doctor?’ he said quietly. The surgeon looked doubtfully at me and I nodded.