"No ship at all. It's a cow camp."
"Log cabin, isn't it?"—he was staring at the walls. "I never saw one before. I must have been out of my head for a while. Picked up, of course. Was the mate picked up? He was in bad shape."
"Look here, old man," I said, gently, "are you out of your head now, or were you out of your head before?"
"I don't know. I must have been out of my head. I can't remember much after tumbling overboard, until just now. What day is this?"
"Tuesday," I answered.
"Tuesday? It was Sunday when it happened. Did you have a hand in picking me up? Who was it?"
"Not me," I said. "I found you on the road out here in a dazed state of mind, and you knew nothing whatever of ships or of sailors, though I took you for a shellback by your walk."
"That's right. You can always spot one. You're a sailor, I can see, and an American, too. But what are you doing here? This must be the coast of Portugal or Spain."
"No, this is a cow camp on the Crossbar Range in the middle of Arizona."
"Arizona? Six thousand miles from there! How long have I been out of my head?"