My idea is ... what wash it？ Oh， got it！ Funny how ideasslip. Elusive idea—chasin’ elusive idea—great sport. Everchase rabbits， Percy， my frien’？ I had dog—great rabbitdog. Whash ’is name？ Don’t know name—never hadno name—forget name—elusive name—chasin’ elusivename—no， idea—elusive idea， but got it—what I want tosay was—O hell！”
Thereafter there was silence for a long time. O’Brienslipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop，where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusiveidea through all the nooks and crannies of his drowningconsciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayedutterance. Suddenly the other’s hand smote him on theback.
“Got it！” Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.
The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaire’smental process.
“How much to the pan？” he demanded.
“Pan nothin’！” Mucluc Charley was angry. “Idea—gotit—got leg-hold—ran it down.”
Leclaire’s face took on a rapt， admiring expression， andagain he hung upon the other’s lips.
“... O hell！” said Mucluc Charley.
At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant，and Curly Jim shouted， “Go home！”
“Funny，” said Mucluc Charley. “Shame idea—very shameas mine. Le’s go home.”
They gathered O’Brien up between them and started.
Mucluc Charley began aloud the pursuit of another idea.
Leclaire followed the pursuit with enthusiasm. But O’Briendid not follow it. He neither heard， nor saw， nor knewanything. He was a mere wobbling automaton， supportedaffectionately and precariously by his two business associates.
They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon.
Home did not lie that way， but the elusive idea did.
Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea that he could notcatch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to whereSiskiyou Pearly’s boat lay moored to the bank. The ropewith which it was tied ran across the path to a pine stump.
They tripped over it and went down， O’Brien underneath.
A faint flash of consciousness lighted his brain. He feltthe impact of bodies upon his and struck out madly for amoment with his fists. Then he went to sleep again. Hisgentle snore arose on the air， and Mucluc Charley began togiggle.
“New idea，” he volunteered， “brand new idea. Jes’ caughtit—no trouble at all. Came right up an’ I patted it on thehead. It’s mine. ’Brien’s drunk—beashly drunk. Shame—damn shame—learn’m lesshon. Trash Pearly’s boat. Put’Brien in Pearly’s boat. Casht off—let her go down Yukon.
’Brien wake up in mornin’. Current too strong—can’t rowboat ’gainst current—mush walk back. Come back madder’n hatter. You an’ me headin’ for tall timber. Learn ’mlesshon jes’ shame， learn ’m lesshon.”
Siskiyou Pearly’s boat was empty， save for a pair of oars.
Its gunwale rubbed against the bank alongside of O’Brien.
They rolled him over into it. Mucluc Charley cast off thepainter， and Leclaire shoved the boat out into the current.
Then， exhausted by their labours， they lay down on thebank and slept.
Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that hadbeen played on Marcus O’Brien. There were some tall betsas to what would happen to the two perpetrators when thevictim arrived back. In the afternoon a lookout was set，so that they would know when he was sighted. Everybodywanted to see him come in. But he didn’t come， thoughthey sat up till midnight. Nor did he come next day， northe next. Red Cow never saw Marcus O’Brien again， andthough many conjectures were entertained， no certain cluewas ever gained to dispel the mystery of his passing.
Only Marcus O’Brien knew， and he never came backto tell. He awoke next morning in torment. His stomachhad been calcined by the inordinate quantity of whiskyhe had drunk， and was a dry and raging furnace. His headached all over， inside and out； and， worse than that， wasthe pain in his face. For six hours countless thousandsof mosquitoes had fed upon him， and their ungratefulpoison had swollen his face tremendously. It was only bya severe exertion of will that he was able to open narrowslits in his face through which he could peer. He happenedto move his hands， and they hurt. He squinted at them，but failed to recognize them， so puffed were they bythe mosquito virus. He was lost， or rather， his identitywas lost to him. There was nothing familiar about him，which， by association of ideas， would cause to rise in hisconsciousness the continuity of his existence. He wasdivorced utterly from his past， for there was nothingabout him to resurrect in his consciousness a memory ofthat past. Besides， he was so sick and miserable that helacked energy and inclination to seek after who and whathe was.
