Greg came to to find himself in a sort of deep narrow well with rough stone walls on either hand and flag-stones beneath him. He was sensible that he was not alone, but his companion was no more than a hazy shape between him and the strip of pale sky far overhead. A strong odor mixed of stable manure and stale whiskey nauseated him. He was sore all over and there was a splitting pain inside his skull. He had no sooner opened his eyes than he was glad to close them. As from a distance he heard a voice, husky but kind, say: "Don't think you ain't got no bones broke, Jack. Can you get up?" Opening his eyes again Greg saw a deplorably dirty, unshaven face bending over him, but the blear eyes were compassionate. If one could overlook the dirt and forget the spirituous emanation, there was something taking about the face, a quality of childlike innocence of soul. The voice went on: "Say, can't you get up? We want to get out of here before they open up the stable. These stable fellas are fierce and fresh. Ain't got no guts." Greg with an effort contrived to sit up. Pain made his head swim, but he would not give in to it. In a few moments he was able to stand, leaning for support against the rough stones. He saw that he was at the bottom of a deep area-way between sidewalk and foundation wall. The building was a great stable. From the open barred windows below the street level came the quiet sound of munching and an occasional stamp on old planks. He got a better look at his unknown friend. On the stage such a make-up would have been hailed as a triumph: his hat had the jaunty air of utter abandonment; his overcoat made Greg's own look as if new come from the tailor's, the holes in it with the various layers of interlining protruding their frayed edges were like strange blossoms applique; through his broken shoes his bent old toes winked shamelessly. He was fussing around Greg like a hen with one chick. "How do you feel now, Jack? The steps is just behind you. Take it real slow. I'll come behind to keep you from falling backwards. I'd carry you on'y I ain't got me stren'th back since I had the shakes." Little by little they got up the long steep steps. At the top Greg rested himself against the iron fence that topped the well. "I was flung over there," he thought wonderingly. "Lord! I must be tougher than I thought!" He saw that he was in MacDougall Street between Clinton Place and the Square, not more than two hundred yards or so from where the gang had issued from the passage.