himself he was two men, and, chronologically speaking, these
men were several thousand years or so apart. He had studied the

question of dual personality probably more profoundly than any
half dozen of the leading specialists in that intricate and

mysterious psychological field. In himself he was a different
case from any that had been recorded. Even the most fanciful

flights of the fiction-writers had not quite hit upon him. He
was not a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he like the

unfortunate young man in Kipling's "Greatest Story in the
World." His two personalities were so mixed that they were

practically aware of themselves and of each other all the time.
His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian

living under the primitive conditions of several thousand years
before. But which self was he, and which was the other, he

could never tell. For he was both selves, and both selves all
the time. Very rarely indeed did it happen that one self did

not know what the other was doing. Another thing was that he
had no visions nor memories of the past in which that early

self had lived. That early self lived in the present; but while
it lived in the present, it was under the compulsion to live

the way of life that must have been in that distant past.
In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and

mother, and to the family doctors, though never had they come
within a thousand miles of hitting upon the clue to his

erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not understand his excessive
somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive activity at

night. When they found him wandering along the hallways at
night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills,

they decided he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed
awake and merely under the nightroaming compulsion of his early

self. Questioned by an obtuse medico, he once told the truth
and suffered the ignominy of having the revelation

contemptuously labeled and dismissed as "dreams."
The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became

wakeful. The four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint.
He heard a thousand voices whispering to him through the

darkness. The night called to him, for he was, for that period
of the twenty-four hours, essentially a night-prowler. But

nobody understood, and never again did he attempt to explain.
They classified him as a sleep-walker and took precautions

accordingly--precautions that very often were futile. As his
childhoodadvanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major

portion of all his nights were spent in the open at realizing
his other self. As a result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning

studies and schools were impossible, and it was discovered that
only in the afternoons, under private teachers, could he be

taught anything. Thus was his modern self educated and
developed.

But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a
little demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family

medicos privately adjudged him a mental monstrosity and
degenerate. Such few boy companions as he had, hailed him as a

wonder, though they were all afraid of him. He could outclimb,
outswim, outrun, outdevil any of them; while none dared fight

with him. He was too terribly strong, madly furious.
When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he

flourished, night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was
discovered and brought home. The marvel was how he had managed

to subsist and keep in condition during that time. They did not
know, and he never told them, of the rabbits he had killed, of

the quail, young and old, he had captured and devoured, of the
farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the cave-lair he

had made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in which
he had slept in warmth and comfort through the forenoons of

many days.
At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity

during the morning lectures and for his brilliance in the
afternoon. By collateral reading and by borrowing the notebook

of his fellow students he managed to scrape through the
detestable morning courses, while his afternoon courses were

triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, in
almost every form of track athletics, save for strange

Berserker rages that were sometimes displayed, he could be
depended upon to win. But his fellows were afraid to box with

him, and he signalized his last wrestling bout by sinking his
teeth into the shoulder of his opponent.

After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the
cow-punchers of a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty

cowmen confessed he was too much for them and telegraphed his
father to come and take the wild man away. Also, when the

father arrived to take him away, the cowmen allowed that they
would vastly prefer chumming with howling cannibals, gibbering

lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and man-eating
tigers than with this particular Young college product with

hair parted in the middle.
There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of

his early self, and that was language. By some quirk of
atavism, a certain portion of that early self's language had

come down to him as a racial memory. In moments of happiness,
exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst out in wild

barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he located
in time and space that strayed half of him who should have been

dead and dust for thousands of years. He sang, once, and
deliberately, several of the ancient chants in the presence of

Professor Wertz, who gave courses in old Saxon and who was a
philogist of repute and passion. At the first one, the

professor pricked up his ears and demanded to know what mongrel
tongue or hog-German it was. When the second chant was

rendered, the professor was highly excited. James Ward then
concluded the performance by giving a song that always

irresistibly rushed to his lips when he was engaged in fierce
struggling or fighting. Then it was that Professor Wertz

proclaimed it no hog-German, but early German, or early Teuton,
of a date that must far precede anything that had ever been

discovered and handed down by the scholars. So early was it
that it was beyond him; yet it was filled with haunting

reminiscences of word-forms he knew and which his trained
intuition told him were true and real. He demanded the source

of the songs, and asked to borrow the precious book that
contained them. Also, he demanded to know why young Ward had

always posed as being profoundlyignorant of the German
language. And Ward could neither explain his ignorance nor lend

the book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties that
extended through weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the

young man, believed him a liar, and classified him as a man of
monstrous selfishness for not giving him a glimpse of this

wonderful screed that was older than the oldest any philologist
had ever known or dreamed.

But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know
that half of him was late American and the other half early

Teuton. Nevertheless, the late American in him was no weakling,
and he (if he were a he and had a shred of existence outside of

these two) compelled an adjustment or compromise between his
one self that was a nightprowling savage that kept his other

self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was cultured
and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and

prosecute business like other people. The afternoons and early
evenings he gave to the one, the nights to the other; the

forenoons and parts of the nights were devoted to sleep for the
twain. But in the mornings he slept in bed like a civilized

man. In the night time he slept like a wild animal, as he had
slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods.