Part 37 (1/2)
”That's my name, yes.”
”And I am Ralph--don't you remember?”
”I don't.”
”Ralph Fairbanks.”
Van gave a start. He squarely faced his companion now. His blinking eyes told that the machinery of his brain was actively at work.
”Fairbanks--Fairbanks?” he repeated. ”Aha! yes--letter!”
His hand shot into an inside coat pocket. He withdrew it disappointedly. Then his glance chancing to observe for the first time, it seemed, the suit he wore, apparel that belonged to Ralph, he stood in a painful maze, unable to figure out how he had come by it and what it meant.
”You are looking for a letter,” guessed Ralph.
”Yes, I was--'John Fairbanks, Stanley Junction.' How do you know?” with a stare.
”Because I am Ralph Fairbanks, his son. When you first showed it to me----”
”Showed it to you?”
”Yes.”
”Where?
”At Stanley Junction.”
”I never was there.”
”I think you were.”
”When?”
”About three weeks ago. And you just left there this morning. You was with me on that locomotive that just went ahead, jumped off, and--you had better sit down and let me explain things.”
Van looked distressed. He was in repossession of all his faculties, there was no doubt of that, but there was a blank in his life he could never fill out of his own volition. He studied Ralph keenly for a minute or two, sighed desperately, sat down on a bowlder by the side of the road, and said:
”Something's wrong, I can guess that. I had a letter to deliver, and it seems as if it was only a minute ago that I had it with me. Now it's gone, I find myself here without knowing how I came here, with you who are a stranger telling me strange things, and--I give it up. It's a riddle. What's the answer?”
Ralph had a task before him. In his judgment it was best not to crowd things too speedily, all of a jumble.
”You came to Stanley Junction with a letter about three weeks ago,” he said. ”It seemed you had dead-headed it there on the trucks from some point down the line.”
Van nodded as if he dimly recalled all this.
”You hid in an old factory, or went there to take a nap. A baseball struck your head accidentally. We took you to our home, you have been there since.”
”That's queer, I can't remember. Yes--yes, I do, in a way,” Van corrected himself sharply. ”Was there a chicken house there--oh, such a fine chicken house!” he exclaimed expansively, ”with fancy towers made out of laths, and a dandy wind vane on it?”