very like the months he put in at Bellevue in the long ago, before he
had experienced the hunger-cancer and compromised with honesty.

And again there came nights when doctors shook their heads and nurses
looked grave; nights when it was understood that before another dawn
had come creeping through the windows little Billy Garrison would have
crossed the Big Divide; nights when the shibboleths of a dead-and-gone
life were even fluttering on his lips; nights when names but not
identities fought with one another for existence; fought for birth, for
supremacy, and "Sue" always won; nights when he sat up in bed as he
had sat up in Bellevue long ago, and with tense hands and blazing eyes
fought out victory on the stretch. Horrible, horrible nights; surcharged
with the frenzy and unreality of a nightmare.

And one of his audience who seldom left the narrow cot was a man who had
come to look for a friend among the wreck victims; come and found him
not. He had chanced to pass Garrison's cot. And he had remained.

Came a night at last when stamina and hope and grit won the long,
long fight. The crisis was turned. The demons, defeated, who had
been fighting among themselves for the possession of Garrison's
mind, reluctantly gave it back to him. And, moreover, they gave it
back--intact. The part they had stolen that night in the Hoffman House
was replaced.

This restoration the doctors subsequently called by a very learned and
mysterious name. They gave an esoteric explanation redounding greatly to
the credit of the general medical and surgical world. It was something
to the effect that the initial blow Garrison had received had forced a
piece of bone against the brain in such a manner as to defy mere man's