"Why, the accident. I'm Thayer, you know--Thayer, your manager at the
Empire Lake mill."

"Have I a manager?"

The thin man drew back at this and stood for a moment staring down at
Houston. Then he laughed and rubbed his gnarled hands.

"I hope you've got a manager. You--you haven't fired me, have you?"

Barry turned his head wearily, as though the conversation were ended.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You--don't--say, you're Barry Houston, aren't you?"

"I? Am I?"

"Well, then, who are you?"

The man on the bed smiled.

"I'd like to have you tell me. I don't know myself."

"Don't you know your name?"

"Have I one?"

Thayer, wondering now, drew a hand across his forehead and stood for a
moment in disconcerted silence. Again he started to frame a question,
only to desist. Then, hesitatingly, he turned and walked to the door.

"Ba'tiste."

"Ah, _oui_!"

"Come in here, will you? I'm up against a funny proposition. Mr.
Houston doesn't seem to be able to remember who he is."

"Ah!" Then came the sound of heavy steps, and Barry glanced toward the
door, to see framed there the gigantic form of a grinning, bearded man,
his long arms hanging with the looseness of tremendous strength, his
gray eyes gleaming with twinkling interest, his whole being and build
that of a great, good-humored, eccentric giant. His beard was
splotched with gray, as was the hair which hung in short, unbarbered
strands about his ears. But the hint of age was nullified by the cocky
angle of the blue-knit cap upon his head, the blazing red of his
double-breasted pearl-buttoned shirt, the flexible freedom of his
muscles as he strode within. Beside him trotted a great gray
cross-breed dog, which betokened collie and timber wolf, and which
progressed step by step at his master's knee. Close to the bed they
came, the great form bending, the twinkling, sharp eyes boring into
those of Houston, until the younger man gave up the contest and turned
his head,--to look once more upon the form of the girl, waiting
wonderingly in the doorway. Then the voice came, rumbling, yet
pleasant:

"He no remember, eh?"

"No. I know him all right. It's Barry Houston--I've been expecting
him to drop in most any day. Of course, I haven't seen him since he
was a kid out here with his father--but that doesn't make any
difference. The family resemblance is there--he's got his father's
eyes and mouth and nose, and his voice.