HE man on the bed waved away the cup of broth and turned with a groan to the wall. The woman stood looking down at his despairing figure, her mouth working convulsively. Then she leaned over and patted his shoulder with her work-hardened hand.
“Don't take on so, Joe! Let me bring the children in. The baby's been cryin' for daddy all day.” There was no answer, only a negative shake of the head. “An Tim's been here to see how you stood the operation, an' he says Miles is goin' to give you a new job soon's you're better.”
She stood for a moment; then, as the silence was unbroken, she darkened the room and went out, furtively wiping her eyes on her checked gingham apron. As the door closed behind her the man opened his eyes and turned around. Raising himself on his elbow, he looked with careful scrutiny at each object in the room—at the cheap furniture, the wallpaper, the gun over the mantel, even the suit of clothes which hung from a nail on the door. Nothing was familiar.
For the thousandth time since he had awakened to consciousness that morning, he tried to marshal into order the chaos of his mind. The woman's story was preposterous, of course. He was foolish to be agitated by it. And yet—he had heard of such things occurring. And then his hands—again he held them to the light and examined them. They were calloused and knotted with labor. Again he touched his chin. He was not dreaming—there was a heavy heard. God, if it were true!
He sank back on the pillow as the doctor entered, and submitted silently to the dressing of a wound in his head. When it was over, and the woman had left the room, he turned to the physician with puzzled eyes.
“What's the meaning of it all, doctor? This woman says that she is my wife, that these children running around are mine! Why, doctor, I could swear I had never seen any of them in my life before. There is some terrible mistake. You call me Joe. My name is not Joe, it is Frank, Frank Elbert Martin. Why, look here, do you think I ever had hands like these?”
He held them up as he spoke, the hands of a man who has earned his bread with them for years, knotted and large-veined, with the nails broken and misshapen.
“Queer hands for a fellow just out of college,” he said bitterly.
The doctor laid down his hat and case, and drew a chair to the bed.
“College! What college?” he asked, his eyes on the other's face.
“Yale, seventy-six. I have been here at the works only about a year. And ever since I came I have feared just what has happened. The magazine was entirely too close to the factory. Were many of the men injured?”
The doctor whistled. The magazine of the Rochester Ammunition Company had blown up just once in its history, in July, 1877, almost twenty-five years ago! He suddenly comprehended the terrible disaster that had taken this middle-aged man back to his youth.
“Quite a number,” he answered evasively. “Don't talk about it until you are stronger.”
“In the name of Heaven, doctor, don't put me off! Don't you see the suspense is driving me crazy? Can't you explain some of these things? How I got here, why my name is changed. and how I go to sleep clean-shaven and waken with a beard?”
The doctor took off his glasses and wiped them. He would have given a great deal to get away from the searching glance of the sunken eyes beneath the bandage. But he was not a coward, and a long experience with the sadder side of suffering humanity had taught him that the swiftest cut of the knife is the kindest.
“My poor fellow,” he said gently, “I have been your physician for fifteen years. I have always known you as Joe Kelly, and the woman who has just gone out as your wife.”
“My God, doctor, is this true?”
In his excitement the patient sat up in bed; then, as the doctor nodded affirmatively, he fell back, and, burying his face in the pillow, sobbed pitiably. The doctor leaned over and felt his pulse. Beneath his fingers it leaped along with unnatural velocity, but showed no signs of failure. From his tiny hypodermic case he extracted one of the microscopic vials, and dissolving a tablet in some water held it to the sick man's lips.
“When I started in practise here, some fifteen years ago, the men at the works told me of a young fellow who had been injured in the explosion, and whose recovery had been accompanied by a complete loss of memory. Such cases are not particularly rare, and I paid no special attention; but I remember that he learned to speak, and even to walk again.”
“And it was I?” with pale lips.