It was at the sanatorium that my ankles were finally restored to a semblance of their former utility.  They were there subjected to a course of heroic treatment; but as to-day they permit me to walk, run, dance, and play tennis and golf, as do those who have never been crippled, my hours of torture endured under my first attempts to walk are almost pleasant to recall.  About five months from the date of my injury I was allowed, or rather compelled, to place my feet on the floor and attempt to walk.  My ankles were still swollen, absolutely without action, and acutely sensitive to the slightest pressure.  From the time they were hurt until I again began to talk—­two years later—­I asked not one question as to the probability of my ever regaining the use of them.  The fact was, I never expected to walk naturally again.  The desire of the doctors to have me walk I believed to be inspired by the detectives, of whom, indeed, I supposed the doctor himself to be one.  Had there been any confession to make, I am sure it would have been yielded under the stress of this ultimate torture.  The million needle points which, just prior to my mental collapse, seemed to goad my brain, now centred their unwelcome attention on the soles of my feet.  Had the floor been studded with minute stilettos my sufferings could hardly have been more intense.  For several weeks assistance was necessary with each attempt to walk, and each attempt was an ordeal.  Sweat stood in beads on either foot, wrung from my blood by agony.  Believing that it would be only a question of time when I should be tried, condemned, and executed for some one of my countless felonies, I thought that the attempt to prevent my continuing a cripple for the brief remainder of my days was prompted by anything but benevolence.

The superintendent would have proved himself more humane had he not peremptorily ordered my attendant to discontinue the use of a support which, until the plaster bandages were removed, had enabled me to keep my legs in a horizontal position when I sat up.  His order was that I should put my legs down and keep them down, whether it hurt or not.  The pain was of course intense when the blood again began to circulate freely through tissues long unused to its full pressure, and so evident was my distress that the attendant ignored the doctor’s command and secretly favored me.  He would remove the forbidden support for only a few minutes at a time, gradually lengthening the intervals until at last I was able to do without the support entirely.  Before long and each day for several weeks I was forced at first to stagger and finally to walk across the room and back to the bed.  The distance was increased as the pain diminished, until I was able to walk without more discomfort than a comparatively pleasant sensation of lameness.  For at least two months after my feet first touched the floor I had to be carried up and downstairs, and for several months longer I went flat-footed.