Somewhere downstairs a clock struck in silvery tones. He counted. Five--six--seven--eight! Eight o’clock! It couldn’t be possible! He must have counted wrong. Why, he couldn’t remember when he had lain in bed, much less slept, as late as that! He began to wonder uncomfortably if his injury could really be more serious than he had supposed, for with Sam only real illness excused staying in bed until such an hour. He lifted his head experimentally and turned it from side to side. It seemed to feel all right. And he couldn’t detect any signs of fever. He had, of course, heard of folks being internally injured, but he didn’t know what the symptoms would be, and so wasn’t certain if he had them. He really felt remarkably well, except that his knee hurt if he moved it or flexed the muscles, and, on the whole, he concluded, not without a feeling of relief, that he had mistaken the striking of the clock. From somewhere not far off came the subdued rushing of water. Someone was going to have a bath. Therefore it couldn’t be very late. Also, a moment later, he was pleasantly aware of a faint aroma of coffee and something else that might be broiling ham or bacon. He suddenly knew that he was very, very hungry. A door slammed nearby and a merry whistle floated down the hall. Then silence again. Sam closed his eyes---- “----Breakfast coming up in a minute,” a voice was saying, “and I thought maybe you’d like to wash up a bit.” Sam blinked dazedly. Beside the bed stood Mr. York, smiling, fresh and cool in white flannels. Sam viewed him in consternation. “I--I believe I went to sleep again!” he stammered. “I’m sure you did!” laughed his host. “But--but what time is it?” “Oh, about eight-thirty. It’s not late.” “Eight-thirty! Why, I never slept that late in my life!” exclaimed Sam in horrified tones. Mr. York laughed delightedly. “You have now, old chap. How’s it seem?” “Fine, only--I’m wondering if--if I’m all right. You don’t suppose I got hit on the head or--or anything like that, do you, sir?” “Great Scott, no! You just slept because you were tired out and were in a new place and, if I do say it, had a good bed. Now, how’s the knee this morning?” Mr. York himself attended to putting on new bandages, in spite of Sam’s expostulations, and brought him water in a bowl and soap and a face-cloth and found his tooth-brush for him and generally valeted him. Sam was all for doing things for himself, even for being allowed to get up and have his breakfast downstairs, but when, at Mr. York’s request, he gently bent that right knee, he concluded that he was not, after all, quite ready to assert his independence. The thing was as stiff and lame as could be. “Thought so,” said the other. “You keep it quiet to-day, Craig. To-night we’ll get at it with liniment and to-morrow you’ll be up and around again, I guess. After breakfast we’ll get you down on the veranda. There you are, now. How’s your appetite?”