“Nevertheless, this is a ship,” the physician patiently explained, “and you’re on it and I’m talking to you.  What is more, you have not exchanged identities with your friend Anthony, for your ticket reads ‘Jefferson Locke.’  You’ll be all right if you will just go to sleep and give that capsule a chance to operate.”

“Ask Higgins or Ringold who I am.”

“There’s no one aboard by either of those names.”

“Say!” Anthony raised himself excitedly on one arm, but was forced to lie down again without delay.  “If this is a ship, I must have come aboard.  How did I do it?  When?  Where?”

“You came on with two men, or rather between two men, about eight-thirty this morning.  They put you in here, gave your ticket to the purser, and went ashore.  The slim fellow was crying, and one of the deck-hands had to help him down the gangway.”

“That was Higgins all right.  Now, Doctor, granting, just for the sake of argument, that this is a ship and that I am Jefferson Locke, when is your next stop?”

“One week.”

“What?” Kirk’s eyes opened wide with horror.  “I can’t stay here a week.”

“You will have to.”

“But I tell you I can’t, I just can’t.  I bought a new car the other day and it’s standing in front of the New York Theatre.  Yes, and I have two rooms and a bath at the Astor, at fifteen dollars a day.”

The physician smiled heartlessly.  “You must have been drinking pretty heavily, but I guess you will remember everything by-and-by.”

“I can’t understand it,” groaned the bewildered invalid.  “What ship is this—­if it is really a ship?”

“The Santa Cruz.  Belongs to the United Fruit Company.  This is one of the bridal suites; it is 11:30 P.M., November 21st.  We are bound for Colon.”

“Where is that?”

“Panama.”

“Panama is in Central America or Mexico or somewhere, isn’t it?”

“It is.  Now, do you remember anything more?”

“Not a thing.”

“Well, then, go to sleep.  You’ll be all right in the morning, Mr. Locke.”

“Anthony.”

“Very well, Mr. Anthony, if you prefer.  Is there anything more you would like to ask me?”

“No.”

“Of course, there may have been some mistake,” the medical man observed, doubtfully, as he opened the door.  “Maybe you intended to take some other ship?”

“No mistake at all,” the sick man assured him.  “I’m beginning to remember now.  You see, I lost my hat and decided I’d run down to Panama and get another.  Good-night.”

“Good-night.  That capsule will make you sleep.”

When the officer had gone Kirk mumbled to himself:  “If it turns out that I am in New York, after all, when I wake up I’ll lick that doctor.”  Then he turned over and fell asleep.

But morning showed him the truth of the doctor’s information.  He awoke early and, although his head still behaved queerly and he had moments of nausea, he dressed himself and went on deck.  The shock he had received on the evening before was as nothing to what he felt now upon stepping out into the light of day.  In spite of his growing conviction, he had cherished a lingering hope that it was all a dream, and the feeling did not entirely vanish until he had really seen for himself.  Then his dismay was overwhelming.