"I know. Wonder what's the time."
He glanced at his watch. "Eleven thirty."
Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The
cigarette was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a
minute, taking a dull note of his surroundings. In the well of
gaiety and laughter coming from all parts of the room his actions
were out of place. He seemed dazed; unable to pull himself
together. Suddenly he looked at us. He started.
"He certainly knows us," I said. "I wonder--by George, he's coming
over."
Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of
his body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced
himself carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features
became familiar, the underlines of another, the ghost of one
departed. At first I could not place him. He held himself up for
breath. Who was he? Then it suddenly came to me--back to the old
days at college--an athlete, one of the best of fellows, one of
the sturdiest of men! He had come to this!
Hobart was before me.
"By all the things that are holy!" he exclaimed. "Chick Watson!
Here, have a seat. In the name of Heavens, Chick! What on earth--"
The other dropped feebly into the chair. The body that had once
been so powerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of
padding.
"Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry," he spoke in a whisper. "Not much
like the old Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy.
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