“This—this horrible—your leg; your leg—”
Jack suddenly stooped and gazed earnestly into my face. “Do you know me, Bob?” He trembled as he spoke.
“Know you, Jack! why should I not know you? When did I ever forget you?”
“Thank God!” he exclaimed fervently, taking my hand and pressing it to his breast. “You’re all right again. Oh, how I have longed and prayed for this.”
“All right, Jack. Have I been wrong, then?”
“That you have just,” said Jack, smiling sadly. “You’ve just been as mad as a March hare, that’s all!”
I fell flat down and gazed at him. In a minute more I raised myself on one elbow, and, looking at him earnestly, said, “How long, Jack?”
“Just three weeks to-day.”
I fell flat down again, in which position Jack left me to go and fetch me some dinner. He returned quickly with a plate of soup. Before commencing to eat it I pressed my hand on my forehead, and said—
“Jack, I am surrounded by mysteries. How got you so soon well? Where got you that wooden leg? How are we here alone? Where are we going? Clear up my faculties, Jack, while I eat this soup—do, like a good fellow.”