Nevertheless, when I was safely home again, with Mrs. Klopton brewing strange drinks that came in paper packets from the pharmacy, and that smelled to heaven, I remember staggering to the door and closing it, and then going back to bed and howling out the absurdity and the madness of the whole thing. And while I laughed my very soul was sick, for the girl was gone by that time, and I knew by all the loyalty that answers between men for honor that I would have to put her out of my mind. And yet, all the night that followed, filled as it was with the shrieking demons of pain, I saw her as I had seen her last, in the queer hat with green ribbons. I told the doctor this, guardedly, the next morning, and he said it was the morphia, and that I was lucky not to have seen a row of devils with green tails. I don’t know anything about the wreck of September ninth last. You who swallowed the details with your coffee and digested the horrors with your chop, probably know a great deal more than I do. I remember very distinctly that the jumping and throbbing in my arm brought me back to a world that at first was nothing but sky, a heap of clouds that I thought hazily were the meringue on a blue charlotte russe. As the sense of hearing was slowly added to vision, I heard a woman near me sobbing that she had lost her hat pin, and she couldn’t keep her hat on. I think I dropped back into unconsciousness again, for the next thing I remember was of my blue patch of sky clouded with smoke, of a strange roaring and crackling, of a rain of fiery sparks on my face and of somebody beating at me with feeble hands. I opened my eyes and closed them again: the girl in blue was bending over me. With that imperviousness to big things and keenness to small that is the first effect of shock, I tried to be facetious, when a spark stung my cheek. “You will have to rouse yourself!” the girl was repeating desperately. “You’ve been on fire twice already.” A piece of striped ticking floated slowly over my head. As the wind caught it its charring edges leaped into flame. “Looks like a kite, doesn’t it?” I remarked cheerfully. And then, as my arm gave an excruciating throb—“Jove, how my arm hurts!” The girl bent over and spoke slowly, distinctly, as one might speak to a deaf person or a child. “Listen, Mr. Blakeley,” she said earnestly. “You _must_ rouse yourself. There has been a terrible accident. The second section ran into us. The wreck is burning now, and if we don’t move, we will catch fire. Do you hear?” Her voice and my arm were bringing me to my senses. “I hear,” I said. “I—I’ll sit up in a second. Are you hurt?” “No, only bruised. Do you think you can walk?” I drew up one foot after another, gingerly. “They seem to move all right,” I remarked dubiously. “Would you mind telling me where the back of my head has gone? I can’t help thinking it isn’t there.” She made a quick examination. “It’s pretty badly bumped,” she said. “You must have fallen on it.”