fterward I learned that my name and that of George
Marshall had appeared in the papers for a few days until the hospital
doctors announced that we would probably recover. The public accepted
that as a finality quite as agreeably as if we had died of our
injuries, and so we sank below the horizon again. Our thrilling rescue
by the fire department net, with a vague mention of our injuries
received while falling against the useless fire escapes, was part of the
news of the day; also the fact that I had been thrown from the window
and that a search had been made of the ruins, but no trace of Hosley
could be found. In a few days, he, too, appeared to be forgotten. My
brother had not seen any of his folks up home and none of them had
driven over to our place, a distance of ten miles. We boys had been away
so long, the two families had rather lost track of each other, I
supposed, although it did seem strange to me. I made little mention of
Jim in my letters to the old home folks. The bad news, I knew, would
leak out in time and my chuckle-headedness would be as much a part of
the village gossip as the story of his crime.

A few days after I had regained consciousness I began to discuss with
Hygeia the other man who was injured at the fire.

"What sort of a looking man is that fellow, George Marshall, who was
hurt?" I asked, thinking he might be Hosley under another name and she
not know it.

"He seemed rather slight in build," she answered demurely. "I should say
he weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds." Jim had lost weight, but
I did not think of that.

"Any of his folks been here? With whom did he live? What flat? Which
house?"

"Well, now, I shan't say; really, I shan't say who has been here to see
him. Look to yourself."

"Why can't I go in and talk to him? Is he awake?"

"How could you? Why are you so foolish now to worry about him? He
doesn't bother his head about you. Haven't you had all you want of that
fire, without talking it all over again with that man?"

"I'd like first rate to have a talk with that fellow. Maybe I know him."

"Well, I know you are a great man to talk, but we shan't let you talk
him to death."

"Say, can't you tell me what sort of a looking dub he is?"

"A what? Most of the time you seem to speak Welsh."

"How are you so cock-sure his name is George Marshall?"

"How do I? Well! well!"

"Why, look here! Isn't it natural for me to ask about him? Didn't we
pass through almost