The driver acted as though he did not understand. He began turning the hat around and around in his hands and peering into the crown in the abstracted fashion of one who is struggling with a hard mental problem.
A little way back, Matt remembered that they had passed a road house. If he could get the driver to the road house, perhaps the people there could do something for him.
“Come,” said he, catching the man by the arm and trying to lift him. “You are sick, and I’ll help you to a place where they can look after you.”
Mechanically the driver put his hat on his head and got to his feet. For a moment he stood still, staring at Matt speculatively, as though trying to guess who he was and where he had come from; then, suddenly, he whirled and broke from Matt’s grasp, running farther back into the bushes.
In half a dozen leaps Matt was upon him again, and had caught him firmly by the collar.
“I’m a friend of yours,” he said soothingly, “and I want to take you to a place where you can be cared for. You’re not right in your head.”
“Who are you?” mumbled the driver.
“Can’t you remember me? I was in your taxicab; you picked me up at the Flatiron Building.”
“What taxicab?” the man asked, drawing one hand across his forehead.
“Yours.”