"I've often wondered," returned Allison, "why I felt so much--well, so
much more adequate with my hat on."

"Clear case of inherited instincts. The wild dog used to make himself a
smooth bed in the rushes of long grass by turning around several times
upon the selected spot. Consequently, the modern dog has to do the same
stunt before he can go to sleep. The hat is a modification of the
helmet, which always had to be worn outside the house, in the days when
hold-ups and murders were even more frequent than now, and the desire
for a walking-stick comes from the old fashion of carrying a spear or a
sword. If a man took off his helmet, it was equivalent to saying: 'In
the presence of my friend, I am safe.' When he takes off his hat to a
lady now, he merely means: 'You're not a voter.' You'll notice that in
any gathering of men, helmets are still worn."

So he chattered, with apparent unconcern, but, none the less, he was
keenly watching his patient. With tact that would have done credit to a
diplomat, he kept the conversation in agreeable channels. By noon,
Allison had his clothes on, the coat being pinned under the left arm
with two safety pins that did not show, and was out upon an upper
veranda.

Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even
though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his
chair. Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.

"I believe you're a miracle-worker," he said. "Two days ago, I was in
bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope. Now I've got all three."