The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

Hobart nodded.

“Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has business with our wan friend yonder. See!”

And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not place him. His lips were set; in their grim line—determination; whatever his exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for this weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that he was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda began talking. I noted the poise in his manner; it was not evil, rather was it calm—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 an admiration. The waiter brought glasses.

The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up and sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand upon the table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. The older man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all our phantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude was calmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but the young man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his head.

The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Once he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of his weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamda drew 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's not dead; just weary.”

He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed. He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table, walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out both arms and dropped his head upon the table.

It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the life 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 was the 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.” 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.”

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. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not sick, 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's soul. He touched his forearm.

“Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind Spot.”

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 to a heap. His voice was feeble.

“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying—of the Blind Spot”