Mr. Wriford sat up. He pressed a hand to his head and presently, his chest heaving, spoke with sobbing breaths. "You might have helped me," he sobbed. "You might have helped me." From above his dripping nose, Mr. Puddlebox regarded him dolorously. He had no speech. "You might have helped me," Mr. Wriford moaned. "Glug," said Mr. Puddlebox thickly. "Glug. Blink!" "When you saw me--" Mr. Wriford cried. "Glug," said Mr. Puddlebox. "Blink! Helped you!" he then cried. "Why, look what the devil I have helped you! Glug. If I have bled a pint, I have bled a quart, and at this flood I shall ungallon myself to death. Glug. Blink. Why, I was no less than a fool ever to come near you. Might have helped you! Glug!" Mr. Wriford's common politeness came to him. With some apology in his tone, "I don't know how you got that," he said. "I only--" Mr. Puddlebox, very woefully from behind a blood-red cloth: "I don't know how I shall ever get over it." But he was by now a little better of it, the flow somewhat staunched, and he said with a vexation that he justified by glances at the soaking cloth between dabs of it at his nose: "Why, I helped you in all I could. You fought like four devils. I was in the very heart of it. "I heard you," said Mr. Wriford, "shouting 'Glumph him!' or some such word. It was no help to--" Mr. Puddlebox returned crossly. "Glumph him! Certainly I--glug. Blink! There it is off again. Glug. Certainly I shouted glumph him. A glumph is a fat hit--a hit without art or science, and the only sort of which I am capable, or you, either, as I saw at a glance. Glug." "I was fighting," said Mr. Wriford. "I was being killed, and you--" "Why, I was being killed also," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "Look at my foot. Look at my nose. Fighting! Why, there never was such senseless fighting--never. Glug. Blink! Why, beyond that you fought with me whenever I came near you, who to the devil do you think you were fighting with?" Mr. Wriford looked at him with very troubled eyes. After a little while, "Why, tell me whom," he said. "I want to know." His voice ran up and he cried: "It's not right! I want to know." "Why, loony," said Mr. Puddlebox kindly, suddenly losing his heat and his vexation, "why, loony, you were fighting yourself." "Yes," Mr. Wriford answered him hopelessly. "Yes. That's it. Myself that follows me," and he moaned and wrung his hands, rocking himself where he sat. Mr. Puddlebox supported his nose with his blood-red cloth and waddled to Mr. Wriford on his knees. He sat himself on his heels and wagged a grave finger before Mr. Wriford's face. "Now look here, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. "When I say you, I mean you--that you," and he dug the finger at Mr. Wriford's chest. "When I say fought yourself, I mean your own hands--those hands, at your own throat--that throat."