ought you here for a feed and a night's sleep."

"That was kind of you--" He involuntarily raised his hand to his face.
"I've grown a beard, I see. Let's see how I look with a beard." He
stepped to a looking-glass on the wall, took one look, and sprang back.

"Why, it isn't me!" he exclaimed, looking around with dilated eyes.
"It's someone else."

"Take another look," I said. He did so, moved his head to the right and
left, and then turned to me.

"It must be me," he said, hoarsely, "for the image in the glass follows
my movements. But I've lost my face. I'm another man. I don't know
myself."

"Look at that anchor on your wrist," I suggested. He did so.

"Yes," he said, "that part of me is left. It was pricked in on my first
voyage." He examined his arms and legs. "Changed," he muttered. He
rubbed his knees, and passed his hands over his body.

"What year was it when, as you say, you jumped overboard?" I asked.

"Eighteen seventy-five."

"This is eighteen eighty-four. Matey, you have been nine years out of
your head," I said.

"Nine years? Sure? Can you prove that to me? My God, man, think of it!
Nine years gone out of my life. You don't know what that means to me."

I showed him a faded and discolored newspaper.

"That paper is about six months old," I said, "but it's an eighteen
eighty-four paper."

"Right," he said, sadly and somewhat wildly. "Got a pipe? I want to
smoke on this, and think it out. Nine years, and six thousand miles
travel! Where have I been, I wonder, and what have I done, to change
the very face of me, while I lived with it? It's something like death,
I take it."

I gave him a pipe and tobacco, and he smoked vigorously, trembling with
excess of emotion, yet slowly pulling himself together. Finally he
steadied, but he could not smoke. He put the pipe down, saying that it
sickened him. I knew nothing of psychology at the time, but think now
that in his second personality he had given up smoking.

I forbore questioning him, knowing that I could not help him in his
problem--that he must work it out himself. He did not sleep that night,
and kept me awake most of the time with his twitchings and turnings.
Once he was up, examining his face in the glass by the light of a
match, but in the morning, after a doze of an hour or so, I found him
outside, looking at the sunrise and smoking.

"I'm getting used to my new face," he said, "and I'm getting used to
smoking again. Got to. Nothing but