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Newspaper Page Text
cruel gasluat one side of his head. A
buttonhole of his vest was toriLapart,.
showing where his watch chain had
been torn from place. A pocket was
turned inside out. Evidently foot
pads had robbed this victim.
Sydney ran to a brook near at
hand. He soaked a handkerchief in
water "and did all he could to re
' move the traces of violence from the
insensible man. Finally the latter
sat up. He put his hand confusedly
to his head, his eyes were somehow
glazed and unsteady as they survey-
"See, here," spoke the latter, "who
are you and what has happened?"
The victim seemed to make a des
perate effort to concentrate his
thoughts, failed and shook his head
"H'm!" soliloquized Sydney, "a bad
blow. See here, old friend, I must
get you to a doctor."
The victim placidly allowed Sydney
to lead him to a nearby village. There
a doctor looked him over, plastered
up the wound on his head and ques
tioned him" as to his home.
"I don't know," was the monoton
Sydney had tuned a piano that day.
He secured lodging for his charge.
He himself slept in a haymow. With
the morning the same cloud of hazi
ness hung over the victim. All that
morning Sydney led him about the
vicinity. No one knew him. He was
an utter stranger to the district.
"See here," said Sydney, "what am
I going to do with you? What do
you want to do?"
"Go with you," replied the old man,
simply. "I like the sunlight, the
woods, the birds. I feel rested, I feel
happy, only I forget what was."
"All right, I make you my partner,"
The old man grew quite blithe and
talkative during the next day of idle
wandering. He was like a pleased
child. Some injury to. his brain, it
was apparent, had blotted out the
.past. Sydney observed'that he was
an educated man, his attire evidenced
respectability. There was not a mark
on his clothing, not a scrap of paper
found to give the slightest clue as to
Every morning and evening, how
ever the old man took from an inner
pocket an exquisite little medallion.
It held the portrait of a beautiful girl.
He would gaze at it raptly for nearly
an hour. And then Sydney got to
sharing his mute adoration. The fair,
wistful features came to form an
ideal in his mind.
Like nomads those two passed
along the flower-frmged byways.
Each day the old man seemed to
grow happier and more contented
with the careless, joyous life.
One evening, while seated in a lit
tle wayside inn, Sydney struck up an
acquaintance with a physician. He
told the story of the old man. The
doctor became interested. He ex
amUied the patient.
'There is a depression of the
skull," he said. "This man's memory
can be restored by a Burgical opera
It would cost fifty dollars, the d6c
tor said, for he would have to call in
a surgeon. Sydney made arrange
ments for the housing of his friend
in the village. Then he started out
It was a glad, prpud day for his
good, kind heart when he returned
with the money to pay for the opera
tion. The doctor" had predicted rightly.
The operation concluded, 'the old
man rose up, a new intelligence in
his face. He listened to the story of
the doctor. His eyes were filled with
gratitude and love as he was told of
(he noble sacrifice of the tramp poet.
"Bring me a check book," he said,
"and a pen."
His apparent whim was gratified.
He scratched out "Bank of Milton,"
substituted "State Bank of Ware
ham," signed a name Henry Morse
and handed the check to Sydney,
filled in for five thousand dollars.