He sat up.  The nurse held a goblet of the green liquid to his lips.  The Bar in blue turned.

“Aye,” he said.  “Give him some of the liquor; it will do him good.  It will put the old energy back in his bones.”

The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson’s ears.  The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he comprehend their significance.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The Bar with the red hair grinned.

“Whist, me lad,” using Chick’s own tongue.  “Get rid of these Thomahlians.  ‘Tis a square game we’re playin’, but we’re takin’ no chances.  Get ’em out of the way so we kin talk.”

Watson turned to the others.  He made the request in his adopted tongue.  They bowed, reverently, and withdrew.

“Who are you?” Chick asked again.

“Oi’m Pat MacPherson.”

“How did you get here?”

The other sat on the edge of the bed.  “Faith, how kin Oi tell ye?  ‘Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th’ trickery av a friend an’ th’ ould Witch av Endor put togither.”

Obviously Watson did not understand.  The stranger continued:  “Faith, sor, an’ no more do Oi.  There’s no one as does, ‘cept th’ ould doc hisself.”

“The old doc!  You mean Dr. Holcomb?”

Watson sat up in his bed.  “Where is he?”

“In a safe place, me lad.  Dinna fear for th’ doctor.  ’Twas him as saved ye—­him an’ your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson, bedad.”

“He—­and you—­saved me?”

“Aye—­there on th’ Spot of Life.  A bit of a thrick as th’ ould doc dug oot o’ his wisdom.  Sure, she dinna work jist loike he said it, but ‘twas a plenty t’ oopset th’ pretty Senestro!”

Watson asked, “What became of the Senestro?”

“Sure, they pulled him oot.  Th’ wee doggie jist aboot had him done for.  Bedad, she’s a good pup!”

“What kind of a dog?”

“A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail.  An’ she’s that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch.  Th’ Thomahlians all called her th’ Four-footed, an’ if they kape on, they’ll jist aboot make her th’ Pope.”

Watson was still thick headed.  “I don’t understand!”

“Nor I laddie.  But th’ ould doc does.  He’s got a foine head for figgers; and’ he’s that scientific, he kin make iron oot o’ rainbows.”

“Iron out of—­what?”

“Rainbows, sor.  Faith, ’tis meself thot’s seen it.  And he’s been watchin’ over ye ever since ye came.  ’Twas hisself, lad, that put it into your head t’ call him th’ Jarados.”

“You don’t mean to say that the professor put those impulses into my head!”

“Aye, laddie; you said it.  He kin build up a man’s thoughts just like you or me kin pile oop lumber.  ‘Tis that deep he is wit’ th’ calculations!”

Watson tried to think.  There was just one superlative question now.  He put it.

“I dinna know if he’s th’ Jarados,” was the reply.  “But if so be not, then he’s his twin brother, sure enough.”