He reached over to the fireplace and took the pipe, tapped it slowly on the hob, sat back, passed his hand over his face again in search of the stubble, and then leaned forward to get the jar from the table; after which he began to fill his pipe by pinching out a sufficient quantity from the jar, placing it in his left palm; and applying the opening of the bowl thereto, worked it round and round till the whole of the tobacco had been worked in, when, after a finishing pressure with one finger, he took a match-box from his pocket and began to smoke in placid content. Brettison still watched his friend intently, to see the effect of all this upon him; and after a quick and meaning glance, he turned to Barron. "Tobacco good?" he said, "Tobacco? Yes, capital tobacco. Have a pipe?" "Not now. I've brought a friend to see you." "Friend? Where is he?" said Barron, peering round through the smoke. "Ho, there! How do--how do? Have a pipe?" Stratton made no reply, but gazed at the man in horror. "Never been shot, I suppose?" said Barron suddenly. Stratton started as if he had been stung. "No, no," said Brettison hastily. "My friend has never been shot." "Ho! pity. Can't grasp it, then. You've never been shot either, but you do. Wonderful case mine, eh?" "Yes, very," said Brettison. "Can't find the bullet, you know. Big bullet shot me; I want it to have it set for my watch chain--I say." "Yes." "Doctor's very proud of me, eh!" "Yes; he considers yours a wonderful case." "Yes; wonderful case." "How did it happen?" said Brettison, with a glance at his friend. "Happen? Ah! I can't find out how it happened. Must have been before I was born." This last in a very thoughtful tone; and then, more loudly: "Of course, if it had happened since, I should have known, eh?" "Very probably," said Brettison. "I often try to think about it; but it don't matter. I say." "Yes." "Doctor's very proud of my case, isn't he?" "Oh, yes, very." "Don't think he has stolen the bullet, do you?" "Oh, no, no; not likely." "No, of course not," said Barron thoughtfully, as he sank back in his chair and went on smoking. Brettison spoke to him again and again, but his words had not the slightest effect; the man seemed perfectly unconscious of all that was said, and at last there was a tap at the door, and the nurse entered with a tray, and a little tureen of beef tea, with thin slices of toast. "He always has this, sir, about this time," said the nurse apologetically, "and the doctor said that it must be given regularly." "Quite right, Mary. Of course." "He has been talking a little, sir?" "Oh, yes, for a time, and then he finished; and we have not had a word since." "No, sir, and you would not till to-morrow now, when he'll wake up a little again, and talk about what a wonderful case his is." "Poor fellow!" said Brettison compassionately. "And he always seems to have got that bullet on his brain, sir." "Naturally," muttered Brettison.