"Say, who are you?" he hissed. "How did you get in here?" And then, of course, I knew that he was crazy. Whether he was crazy in a dream or crazy with me awake, I couldn't guess. It made very little difference, anyhow, for I knew that in another minute I should be either dream dead or real dead; and dash me if I could see any odds worth tossing for in either, you know. But I don't belong to the athletic club quite for nothing, and have managed to pick up a few tricks, you know. So with the decision to chuck the dream theory, I shot my leg forward with a mix-up and twist that made Jenkins loosen his clutch and stagger backward. "What's the matter with you?" I gasped, advancing toward him. "Are you trying to murder me?" But I was so hoarse, the only word that came out plainly was "murder." Jenkins uttered a howl. "Help, Mr. Lightnut! Murder!" "You old fool!" I cried, exasperated. "Come here!" He was coming. He seized a light chair and swung it behind his head. Then he rushed me with a shout. "Oh, Mr. Lightnut!" "Gone clear off his nut!" was my thought. As he swung the chair, I ducked low, and man and chair went crashing to the floor. But he was up again in a jiffy and dancing at me. "Mr. Lightnut, sir, why don't you help me?" "Help you--you jolly idiot?" I muttered indignantly. Then my voice raised: "I've a mind to kill you!" With a yell, he made a kangaroo jump and swung at me again. "He says he's going to kill me, Mr. Lightnut!" he panted as I dodged again. "Help me--wake up, sir!" Wake up? Wake up, indeed, when I had never been so devilish wide awake in all my life! I was _sure_ now about that. I moved toward him cautiously. "Stop your row!" I cried angrily; "you'll have somebody in. Think I want the police up here?" With a glare at me, Jenkins darted past me to the bedroom I had just left. Its light switch clicked, and then back through the brightened doorway he sprang and dashed for a wall cabinet at the side. He began tugging at its little drawer. And suddenly I remembered the revolver there, an old forty-five from a friend in Denver--and loaded! My spring to intercept him was quick, but not quick enough. Half-way to him I pulled up under the compelling argument of the long blue barrel pointed at my head. "Here! Look out, you fool--it's loaded!" I warned, backing away to the window. Jenkins advanced. "What have you done with him?" he panted hoarsely. "Where is he?" "Where's who?" I asked savagely, for I was getting devilish tired of it all. But for the publicity, I should have yelled from the window. "Where's Mr. Lightnut?" he demanded. "Oh, he's all right." I decided to adopt that soothing tone that I had read somewhere was the proper caper with lunatics. "Where?" Jenkins insisted, pushing nearer. And dashed if I knew what to answer; for, if I made a mistake, it might be serious, by Jove! Perhaps some jocular reply would be safest--might divert his attention, you know. The open window gave me an idea.