"I suppose," said the Professor, "that the reflexes, which existed long before there was a conscious mind, can continue to persist even after the mind has been seriously injured. You must have been in the habit of using some weapon--" "A weapon? You mean that I was a soldier? Then what am I doing out of uniform?" "I hardly know," said the Professor slowly. "When I first met you, near the swamp, you were wearing nothing. Your body was dirty and slightly burnt, as if from some explosion. There was not a shred of clothes to give a clue to what you had been. Those you are now wearing, including your overalls, I ah--borrowed from a clothesline." "But there may be traces of my own clothes back in that swamp." "They will be hard to find. Swamps have a habit of swallowing what is left in them." "But there must be _something_ there. How did I get to the swamp in the first place? And what sort of explosion tore my clothes from me?" "A plane," said Angel suddenly. "Maybe you were in a crash. I remember that a coupla months ago some farmers had a story about a plane explodin' in the sky. Maybe that was the one." "If I was in a plane, the wreckage must still be in the swamp." And there too must be where the danger lay. "I'm going back there," he said with sudden determination. "I'll go with you, of course," said the Professor. "As the first one to come across you in your helpless condition, I feel a certain responsibility for you." Angel grinned. "I feel the same way about you, Professor. I guess I been feelin' like that ever since I found you gettin' pushed around by Monk Cromo. Monk's about my size," he explained to Crusoe. "And he useta be a fighter. He thought he had only Professor to handle. He found he had _me_. And ya know, pal, that a good wrestler will take a fighter any old time." "How long ago was that?" asked Professor. "It seems like ages." "Five, six years. But you know somethin', pal, you ain't as helpless as you used to be. That's what comes of havin' a head on you. You learn how to get along, no matter where you are." "I regard that as a compliment, Angel," smiled the little man. "Now, shall we start?" * * * * * Toward the danger that Crusoe felt awaited them in the swamp they could travel but slowly. They had to go by foot, on dusty narrow roads. There was no hope of getting a lift from passing cars. One look at the three of them, and the average driver stepped on the gas and raced away. Farmers set their dogs on them, and only the sight of Angel's grim face and the strength of Angel's powerful muscles kept them from being torn by the hounds and beaten by their masters.