"Poor little beggar!" said he under his breath. "So you've been knocked out, too!" With his knife he cut a piece from the lining of his coat and with a splinter of wood from the floor he set the fractured bone and wrapped the leg tightly. The dog submitted without a whimper, and when he set it down, it lay quietly beside him, watching him with affectionate canine solicitude. "I wonder who we are, you and I," muttered Harry Sanderson whimsically. "I wonder!" His gaze turned to where he could see the sunshine dancing and shimmering from the tremulous water. He sniffed the warm air--it was clear and sweet. Not a cloud was in the perfect sky. How fine he felt, broken head and all! He looked across the car, where the card players were still absorbed. Over the shoulder of one he could see the hand he held--a queen, two aces, a seven and a deuce. For an instant something in his brain snapped and crackled like the sputtering spark of an incomplete insulation--for an instant the fingers almost touched the latch of the closed door. Then the sensation faded, and left a blank as before. He rose to his feet and walked forward. The players looked around. One of them nodded approvingly. "Right as a trivet!" he said. "I made a pretty good job of that cut of yours. Hurt you much?" "No," said Harry. "I'm obliged to you for the attention." "Foolish to walk on a railroad track," the other went on. "By your looks, you've been on the road long enough to know better. We figgered it out that you was just a-going to cross the railroad bridge when the freight raised merry hell with you. We stopped to tank there and we picked you up, you and your four-legged mate. Must have been a bit squiffy, eh?" He winked, and took a flask from his pocket. "Have a hair of the dog that bit you?" he said. Harry took the flask, and, wiping the top on his sleeve, uncorked it. Something in the penetrating odor of the contents seemed to cleave through far mental wastes to an intimate, though mysterious goal. He put it to his lips and drank thirstily. As the burning liquid scorched his throat, a recrudescence of old impulses surged up through the crust of more modern usage. Mentally, characteristically, he was once more the incongruous devil-may-care figure in whom conspicuous achievement and contradictory excesses had walked hand in hand. The Harry Sanderson of the new, remorseful, temperate life, of chastened impulses, of rote and rule and reformed habit--the rector of St. James--had been lost on that wild night ride. The man who had awakened in the freight car was the Satan Sanderson of four years before, who, under stress of mental illness and its warped purview, in that strenuous scene in the chapel, had regained his ancient governance. Harry handed back the flask with a long breath. There was a composed yet reckless light in his eye--the old veiled gleam of vagary, and paradox, and escapade. He seated himself beside them.