Chick struggled in vain. The Bar tightened his grip. A spasm of pain shot through Chick's torso; he could feel his bones giving way. His strength was gone; he could see death. Another moment would have been the end. But something happened. The Senestro miraculously let go his hold. Chick felt something soft brush against his cheek. He heard a queer snapping, and shouts of wonder, and a dreadful choking sound from the Bar. He raised dizzily on one arm. His eyes cleared a bit. The great Bar was on his back; and at his throat was a snarling thing--the creature that Chick had seen in the clover leaf of the Jarados. It was a living dog. XLII. PAT MACPHERSON'S STORY To Watson it was all a blur. He was too weak and too broken to remember distinctly. He was conscious only of an uproar, of a torrent of multitudinous sound. And then--the deep, enveloping tone of a bell. Some time, somewhere, Chick had heard that bell before. In his present condition his memory refused to serve him. He was covered with blood; he tried to rise, to crawl to this snarling animal that was throttling the Senestro. But something seemed to snap within him, and all went black. When he opened his eyes again all had changed. He was lying on a couch with a number of people about. It was a minute before he recognized the Jan Lucar, then the Geos, and lastly the nurse whom he had first seen when he awoke in the Blind Spot. Evidently he was in the hands of his friends, although there was a new one, a red-headed man, clad in the blue uniform of a high Bar. He sat up. The nurse held a goblet of the green liquid to his lips. The Bar in blue turned. “Aye,” he said. “Give him some of the liquor; it will do him good. It will put the old energy back in his bones.” The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson's ears. The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he comprehend their significance. “Who are you?” he asked. The Bar with the red hair grinned. “Whist, me lad,” using Chick's own tongue. “Get rid of these Thomahlians. 'Tis a square game we're playin', but we're takin' no chances. Get 'em out of the way so we kin talk.” Watson turned to the others. He made the request in his adopted tongue. They bowed, reverently, and withdrew. “Who are you?” Chick asked again. “Oi'm Pat MacPherson.” “How did you get here?” The other sat on the edge of the bed. “Faith, how kin Oi tell ye? 'Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th' trickery av a friend an' th' ould Witch av Endor put togither.” Obviously Watson did not understand. The stranger continued: “Faith, sor, an' no more do Oi. There's no one as does, 'cept th' ould doc hisself.” “The old doc! You mean Dr. Holcomb?” Watson sat up in his bed. “Where is he?” “In a safe place, me lad. Dinna fear for th' doctor. 'Twas him as saved ye--him an' your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson, bedad.” “He--and you--saved me?”