“Never mind about me,” said Baltazar, as the doctor took hold of his wrist. “What about Quong Ho?” The doctor gave a serious report. Fractured skull, severe concussion. Broken legs. Semi-consciousness, however, had returned—the hopeful sign. But it would be a ticklish and tedious business. “If you want another opinion, a man from Harley Street, special nurses, don’t hesitate a second,” said Baltazar. “Money’s no object.” “I’ll bear in mind what you say,” replied the doctor; “but if his constitution is as sound as yours, he’ll do all right. By all the rules of the game you ought to be as helpless as he is.” “What’s wrong with me?” “You’ve had half your scalp tom away. How you manage to be sitting up now, eating eggs, after your lunatic performances on Wednesday, is more than I can understand.” Baltazar smiled grimly. “I can’t afford the time to fool about in a state of unconsciousness, when I have two years’ arrears of European history to make up.” “Never mind European history,” said the doctor. “Let us see how this head of yours is getting on.” The dressing completed, he said to Baltazar: “Now you’ll lie quiet and not worry about the war, Quong Ho, or anything.” “And grow wings and order a halo and work out the quadrature of the circle and discover the formula for the Deity in terms of the Ultimate Function of Energy. . . . Man alive!” he cried impetuously, raising himself on his elbow. “Don’t you understand? I’ve been dead for years—my own silly, selfish doing—and now I’ve come to life and found the world in an incomprehensible mess. If I don’t go out and try to understand it, I shall go stark, staring mad!” “I can only order you to stay in bed till I give you permission to get up,” said the doctor. “Good-bye. I’ll come in this evening.” As soon as he had gone Baltazar threw off the bedclothes and sprang to his feet. “Doctors be hanged!” said he. “I’ve not given in to illness all my life long, and I’m not going to begin now. Besides, I’m as fit as ever I was. I’m going to dress.” “I’m afraid you can’t,” said the nurse. “Why?” “You haven’t any clothes.” He glanced for a second or two at the unfamiliar green and purple striped silk pyjamas in which he was clad, and remembered the undervest and flannel trousers, foul with blood and grime, in which he had arrived at Water-End. “The devil!” said he, and he stood gasping as a new conception of himself flashed across his mind. “Except for these borrowed things, I am even more naked than when I came into the world.” “You’d better go back to bed,” said the nurse. “I’ve got to go back to the world,” retorted Baltazar. “As quick as possible.” “You can’t do it in pyjamas,” said the nurse. “I must ask my host to lend me some clothes.” “I’ll go down and see him about it,” said the nurse.