"
It was almost tragic. I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the
waiter. Could it be Chick Watson? I had seen him a year before,
hale, healthy, prosperous. And here he was--a wreck!"
"No," he muttered, "I'm not sick--not sick. Lord, boys, it's good
to meet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last
night, hear some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend.
But I am afraid--" He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into
slumber.
"Hustle that waiter," I said to Hobart. "Hurry that brandy."
The stimulant seemed to revive him. He lifted up suddenly. There
was fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends--
relief. He turned to me.
"Think I'm sick, don't you?" he asked.
"You certainly are," I answered.
"Well, I'm not."
For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.
"You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy," I said.
"I'm going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of
mother--"
He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.
"That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to
think. Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a
friend. I have something for you to give to mother."
"Rats," I said. "I'll take you to her. What are you talking
about?"
But he shook his head.
"I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use--
not after tonight.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69