The mystery was how he had kept alive so
long, how he continued to live from day to day. His stomach was
gone; his whole digestive apparatus was in utter disorder. His
body had shriveled until he weighed no more than a baby. His
pulse was so feeble that even in the hot weather he complained of
the cold and had to be wrapped in the heaviest winter garments.
Yet he lived on, and his mind worked with undiminished vigor.
When Jane reached home, the old man was sitting on the veranda in
the full sun. On his huge head was a fur cap pulled well down
over his ears and intensifying the mortuary, skull-like
appearance of his face. Over his ulster was an old-fashioned
Scotch shawl such as men used to wear in the days before
overcoats came into fashion. About his wasted legs was wrapped a
carriage robe, and she knew that there was a hot-water bag under
his feet. Beside him sat young Doctor Charlton, whom Jane had at
last succeeded in inducing her father to try. Charlton did not
look or smell like a doctor. He rather suggested a professional
athlete, perhaps a better class prize fighter. The weazened old
financier was gazing at him with a fascinated
expression--admiring, envious, amused.
Charlton was saying:
``Yes, you do look like a dead one. But that's only another of
your tricks for fooling people. You'll live a dozen years unless
you commit suicide. A dozen years? Probably twenty.''
``You ought to be ashamed to make sport of a poor old invalid,''
said Hastings with a grin.
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