“Still, you might ha’ done it without killing him, clumsy,” said his mother. She had had a large experience of such scenes, and knew the difference between a stunning blow and a fatal one. “He’s still breathing,” the other said, examining him; “the back o’ his head’s like a bag o’ dice though. The skull’s all splintered. He can’t last. What are we to do?” “He’ll never come to himself again,” the other brother remarked. “Sarve him right. Look at my face! Let’s see, mother; who’s in the house?” “Only four drunk sailors.” “They wouldn’t turn out for any noise. It’s all quiet in the street. Let’s carry him down a bit, Joe, and leave him there. He can die there, and no one think the worse of us.” “Take all the papers out of his pocket, then,” the mother suggested; “they might help the police to trace him. His watch, too, and his money--L3 odd; better than nothing. Now carry him softly and don’t slip.” Kicking off their shoes, the two brothers carried the dying man down stairs and along the deserted street for a couple of hundred yards. There they laid him among the snow, where he was found by the night patrol, who carried him on a shutter to the hospital. He was duly examined by the resident surgeon, who bound up the wounded head, but gave it as his opinion that the man could not possibly live for more than twelve hours. Twelve hours passed, however, and yet another twelve, but John Huxford still struggled hard for his life. When at the end of three days he was found to be still breathing, the interest of the doctors became aroused at his extraordinary vitality, and they bled him, as the fashion was in those days, and surrounded his shattered head with icebags. It may have been on account of these measures, or it may have been in spite of them, but at the end of a week’s deep trance the nurse in charge was astonished to hear a gabbling noise, and to find the stranger sitting up upon the couch and staring about him with wistful, wondering eyes. The surgeons were summoned to behold the phenomenon, and warmly congratulated each other upon the success of their treatment. “You have been on the brink of the grave, my man,” said one of them, pressing the bandaged head back on to the pillow; “you must not excite yourself. What is your name?” No answer, save a wild stare. “Where do you come from?” Again no answer. “He is mad,” one suggested. “Or a foreigner,” said another. “There were no papers on him when he came in. His linen is marked ‘J. H.’ Let us try him in French and German.” They tested him with as many tongues as they could muster among them, but were compelled at last to give the matter over and to leave their silent patient, still staring up wild-eyed at the whitewashed hospital ceiling.