He scarcely knew why he said it. There was something in the situation
and in the man himself which was compelling. He was not of the tramp
order. His wet clothes had been decent, and his broken, terrified
voice was neither coarse nor nasal. He lifted his head and caught
Tembarom's arm, clutching it with desperate fingers.

"Could you?" he poured forth the words. "Could you? I'm not quite mad.
Something happened. If I could be quiet! Don't let them stop me! My
God! my God! my God! I can't say it. It's not far away, but it won't
come back. You're a good fellow; if you're human, help me! help me!
help me!" He clung to Tembarom with hands which shook; his eyes were
more abject than the starved dog's; he choked, and awful tears rolled
down his cheeks. "Only help me," he cried--"just help, help, help--
for a while. Perhaps not long. It would come back." He made a
horrible effort. "Listen! My name--I am--I am--it's--"

He was down on the ground again, groveling. His efforts had failed.
Tembarom, overwrought himself, caught at him and dragged him up.

"Make a fight," he said. "You can't lie down like that. You've got to
put up a fight. It'll come back. I tell you it will. You've had a
clip on the head or something. Let me call an ambulance and take you
to the hospital."

The next moment he was sorry he had said the words, the man's terror
was so ill to behold. He grew livid with it, and uttered a low animal
cry.

"Don't drop dead over it," said Tembarom, rather losing his head. "I
won't do it, though what in thunder I'm going to do with you I don't