VI
CHICK WATSON
Now to go back.
In due time we were both of us graduated from college. I went into thelaw and Hobart into engineering. We were both successful. There wasnot a thing to foreshadow that either of us was to be jerked from hisprofession. There was no adventure, but lots of work and reward inproportion.
Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was stilla confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was never donejoking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the blame ran anywhereit would have to be placed upon that baby sister of his.
It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One autumnHobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at the gate agirl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I pulled one of herpigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her to get pretty. When wecame home next summer I went over to pull the other pigtail. I did notpull it. I was met by the fairest young woman I had ever looked on. AndI could not kiss her. Seriously, was I to blame?
Now to the incident.
It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and hadbooked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning. We haddinner that day with his family, and then came up to San Francisco fora last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in the opera together,have supper at our favourite cafe, and then turn in. It was a long harkback to our childhood; but for all that we were still boys together.
I remember that night. It was our favourite opera--"Faust." It was theone piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have wondered atthe coincidence. The old myth of age to youth and the subcurrent of sinwith its stalking, laughing, subtle Mephistopheles. It is strange thatwe should have gone to this one opera on this one evening. I recallour coming out of the theatre; our minds thrilling to the music and thesubtle weirdness of the theme.
A fog had fallen--one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that sometimescome upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the crowd disappearedlike shadows. The lights upon the streets blurred yellow. At the coldsheer contact we hesitated upon the pavement.
I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no suchprotection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from thenorth was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his handsinto his pockets.
"Brr," he muttered; "brr, some coffee or some wine. Something."
The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lightshad the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we started acrossthe street.
"Brr is right," I answered, "and some wine. Notice the shadows, likeghosts."
We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.
"Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?" I noted a strange inflection in hisvoice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was suddenand suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and wewere compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and Iside-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again hepeered into the shadow.
"Confound that cab," he was saying, "now we have gone and missed him."
He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favouritetrick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.
"Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!"
I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neitherdid he.
"The Rhamda? You don't know him."
Hobart was puzzled.
"No," he said; "I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fatman."
I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had anaffinity for the fog mist. To come out of "Faust" and to run into theRhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still andwaited.
"I wonder--" said Hobart. "I was just thinking about that fellowtonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot--some coffee."
But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual.During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for thelast few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhapsit was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I wasone of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that itwas, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when weare receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.
We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It wasa contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glassesclinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I satdown; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobarttook a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of mymind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had readthe description. I wondered absently at the persistence.
I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man shouldcontrol his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am notgreat. Certainly it was circumstance.
In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young mansitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was hislistlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers;or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted hisunusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual workingof his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the nightlife of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There wasa certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.
Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled,a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Thenas suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps therewas something in my expression that caught Hobart's attention. He turnedabout.
"Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain."
"Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder--"
The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded. Andagain he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face suddenlyhardened.
"He knows us at any rate," I ventured.
Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could seeanyone coming or going. Following the young man's glance he looked overmy shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by the forearm.
"Don't look round," he warned; "take it easy. As I said--on my honour asa fat man."
The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the rooma man was coming down the aisle--a tall man, dark, and of a very decidedmanner. I had read his description many times; I had seen his likenessdrawn by certain sketch artists of the city. They did not do himjustice. He had a wonderful way and presence--you might say, magnetism.I noticed the furtive wondering glances that were cast, especially bythe women. He was a handsome man beyond denying, about the handsomest Ihad ever seen. The same elusiveness.
At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute I wasjust as certain of his youth. There was something about him that couldnot be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality; he was subtle.His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow, in one handhe carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I breathed anexclamation.
Hobart nodded.
"Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has businesswith our wan friend yonder. See!"
And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young manstraightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not placehim. His lips were set; in their grim line--determination; whatever hisexhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for thisweak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that hewas not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda begantalking. I noted the poise in his manner; it was not evil, rather was itcalm--and calculating. He made an indication. The young man drew back.He smiled; it was feeble and weary, but for all of that disdainful.Though one had a pity for his forlornness, there was still anadmiration. The
waiter brought glasses.
The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up andsipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand uponthe table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. Theolder man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all ourphantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude wascalmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but theyoung man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook hishead.
The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Oncehe started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of hisweakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamdadrew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I heard Hobart mumble.
"Two minutes. Well, I'm betting on the young one. Too much soul. He'snot dead; just weary."
He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamdaclosed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed.He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he wastrembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table,walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out botharms and dropped his head upon the table.
It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchangedglances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to theBlind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with thelife sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar.Hobart interrupted my thoughts.
"I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation. That wasthe Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?"
"Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?"
"I don't think," averred Hobart. "I know. Wonder what's the time." Heglanced at his watch. "Eleven thirty."
Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The cigarettewas still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a minute, taking adull note of his surroundings. In the well of gaiety and laughter comingfrom all parts of the room his actions were out of place. He seemeddazed; unable to pull himself together. Suddenly he looked at us. Hestarted.
"He certainly knows us," I said. "I wonder--by George, he's comingover."
Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of hisbody, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced himselfcarefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features became familiar,the underlines of another, the ghost of one departed. At first I couldnot place him. He held himself up for breath. Who was he? Then itsuddenly came to me--back to the old days at college--an athlete, one ofthe 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 sopowerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of padding.
"Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry," he spoke in a whisper. "Not much like theold Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy."
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 tomeet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hearsome 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 wasfear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends--relief. Heturned 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'mgoing 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 havesomething 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--notafter tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm notsick, boys, far from it."
Hobart spoke up.
"What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?"
Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.
"All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?"
Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other'ssoul. He touched his forearm.
"Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the BlindSpot."
At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder,for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went toa heap. His voice was feeble.
"Yes," he answered, "I am dying--of the Blind Spot"