know that these lapses of memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name, a history or a home.”
“Oh, gammon and jalap!” said Mr. Bolder. “It’s larks they’re after. There’s too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it’s all over they look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: ‘He hypnotized me.’”
Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid me with his comments and philosophy.
We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel, and I wrote my name “Edward Pinkhammer” in the register. As I did so I felt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy—a sense of unlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born into the world. The old fetters—whatever they had been—were stricken from my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man’s learning and experience.
I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no baggage.
“The Druggists’ Convention,” I said. “My trunk has somehow failed to arrive.” I drew out a roll of money.
“Ah!” said he, showing an auriferous tooth, “we have
