The Splendid Outcast — Inside the Classic

I. The Convalescent II. The Mystery Deepens III. The Goose IV. Outcast V. Piquette VI. Youth Triumphant VII. Awakening VIII. Threats IX. Piquette Takes a Hand X. The Samaritan XI. Confessions XII. Quinlevin Speaks XIII. Beginning a Journey XIV. A Night Attack XV. Green Eyes XVI. Nora Speaks XVII. Jim Makes a Guess XVIII. At Bay XIX. In the Dark XX. Freedom XXI. The Petit Bleu XXII. Mystery XXIII. Escape XXIV. The Clue XXV. The Conclusion

She crouched, watching, breathless and uncertain . . . _Frontispiece_

Through Moira’s clear intelligence the epic filtered

The mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale and somber

*THE SPLENDID OUTCAST*

Jim Horton awoke in high fever and great pain but the operation upon his skull had been successful and it was believed that he would recover. Something as to the facts of the exploit of the wounded man had come to the hospital and he was an object of especial solicitude by both surgeons and nurses. They had worked hard to save him that he might be alive for the decoration that was sure to come and the night had brought a distinct improvement in his condition. The nurse still watched his breathing eagerly and wrote down the new and favorable record upon the chart by his bedside. Miss Newberry was not in the least sentimental and the war had blunted her sensibilities, but there was no denying the fact that when the dressing was removed from his head the patient was extremely good to look at. He rewarded her on the morrow with a smile.

"How long have I been here?" he murmured hazily.

"Six days," she replied; "but you mustn’t talk."

"Sh—. In the head, shoulder and leg, but you’re doing nicely."

"Won’t you tell me——?" he began.

But she soothed him gently. "Not now—later perhaps. You must sleep again. Drink this—please."

Horton obeyed, for he found himself too weak to oppose her. It was very restful here; he wriggled his toes luxuriously against the soft sheets for a moment. If things would only stop whirling around.... And the pain ... but that seemed to cease again and he slept. Indeed his awakening was only to half-consciousness. Other days and nights followed when he lay in a sort of doze, aware of much suffering and a great confusion of thought. But slowly, as he grew stronger, the facts of his present position emerged from the dimness and with them a mild curiosity, scarcely lucid as yet, as to how he had gotten there. At last there came a morning when the fog upon his memory seemed to roll aside and he began to recall one by one the incidents that had preceded his unconsciousness.

There had been a fight. Some fight that was. Huns all over the place—in a ring around the rocks, up in the branches of the trees—everywhere. But he had held on until the Boches had started to run when the American line advanced. He remembered that the Engineers could do other things besides build saps and bridges. Good old Engineers! Something was wrong—somewhere.

Out of his clouded brain, slowly, the facts came to him—things that had happened before the fight—just before. Harry—his twin brother Harry, lying in the ditch just behind Jim’s squad of Engineers, a coward, in a blue funk—afraid to carry out his Major’s orders to go forward and investigate. A coward, of course! Harry would be. He had always been a coward.

Jim Horton sighed, his mind, ambling weakly into vacancy, suddenly arrested by a query.

_What else?_—What else had happened? Something to do with the remarkable likeness between himself and Harry? The likeness,—so strong that only their own mother had been able to tell them apart.

Memory came to him with a rush. He remembered now what had happened in the darkness, what he had done. Taken Harry’s lieutenant’s uniform, giving the coward his own corporal’s outfit. Then he, Jim Horton, had gone on and carried out the Major’s orders, leaving the coward writhing in the ditch.

By George!——the fight—he, Jim Horton, had won the victory at Boissière Wood for the —th Infantry—_for Harry!—as Harry_!

Perhaps, he was really Harry and not Jim Horton at all? He glanced around him curiously, as though somewhat amused at the metempyschosis. And then thoughtfully shook his head.

No. He was Jim Horton, all right—Jim Horton. There was no mistake about that.