“Only,” he added, when his head was lifted, “I want t’ give tin dollars of it t’ th’ boys—I’d ’a’ lost if it hadn’t been fer them. An’ Reddy—how’s old Reddy?” “Oh, Jack!” she cried, her eyes suffused with sudden tears, her lips a-tremble, “it’s too terrible! He’s come to, but he don’t remember nothin’—not a thing! He don’t know anybody—not even his own wife, Jack, nor th’ childer, an’ th’ doctor says that maybe he never will!” CHAPTER IX. REDDY’S EXPLOIT As time went on, it became more and more evident that the doctor’s prediction with regard to Reddy Magraw was to be fulfilled. He regained his strength, but the light seemed quite gone from his brain. The officials of the railroad company did all they could for poor Reddy. When the local doctors failed, they brought an eminent specialist from Cincinnati for consultation, but all seemed to agree there was nothing to be done but to wait. There was one chance in a thousand that a surgical operation might prove of benefit, but there was just as great a chance that Nature herself might do the work better. Reddy remembered nothing of his past life. More than this, it gradually became evident to his friends that his genial nature had undergone a change through the darkness that had overtaken his brain. He grew estranged from his family, and strangely suspicious of some of his friends, those to whom he had really been most attached. Among these last was Allan. He would have nothing whatever to do with the boy. “It’s one of the most ordinary symptoms of dementia,” the doctor had explained, when Jack questioned him about it. “Aversion to friends is what we always expect. His wife feels it more keenly than you do.” “Of course she does, poor woman!” agreed Jack. “But he hasn’t got to abusin’ her, sir, has he?” “Oh, no; he doesn’t abuse her; he just avoids her, and shows his dislike in other ways. If he begins to abuse her, we’ll have to send him to the asylum. But I don’t anticipate any violence—I think he’s quite harmless.” It was while they were sitting on the porch one evening discussing the sad situation of their friend, that Allan turned suddenly to Jack. “Do you remember,” he said, “that first noon we were talking together, you started to tell me of some brave thing Reddy had done, and he shut you off?” “Yes,” Jack nodded; “I remember.” “Tell me now, won’t you? I’d like to hear about it.” “All right,” said Jack, and told the story. Here it is: Six years before, Reddy Magraw had been one of the labourers at the big coal-chute which towered into the air at the eastern end of the yards; just an ordinary labourer, working early and late, as every labourer for a railroad must, but then, as always, happy and care-free. It was one afternoon in June that a message flashed into the despatcher’s office which sent the chief despatcher headlong into the office of the superintendent.