"Fact," said the doctor, abstractedly gazing at his watch, while
he held Anthony's wrist between his fingers. "We are one hundred
and fifty miles out of New York. The first officer told me you
were considerably intoxicated when you came aboard, but," he
continued brusquely, rising and closing his watch with a snap,
"you will remember it all in a little while, Mr. Locke."

"What did you call me?"

"Locke. You haven't forgotten your name, too?"

"Wait!"

Again Anthony pressed his throbbing temples with both hot hands
and strove to collect his whirling wits. At last he began to
speak, measuring his words with care.

"Now, I KNOW you are wrong, Doctor, and I'll tell you why. You
see, my name isn't Locke; it's Anthony. Locke went away on a ship,
but _I_ stayed in New York; understand? Well, he's the fellow
you're talking to and I'm asleep somewhere down around the Bowery.
I'm not here at all. _I_ didn't want to go anywhere on a ship; I
couldn't go; I didn't have the price. That supper was a hundred
and seventy."

"Nevertheless, this is a ship," the physician patiently explained,
"and you're on it and I'm talking to you. What is more, you have
not exchanged identities with your friend Anthony, for your ticket
reads 'Jefferson Locke.' You'll be all right if you will just go