"Ye-es. I—think a little—better," the blind man says in an uncertain, hesitating manner. His face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. It happened only a few months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A head appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one suddenly cried. There was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charley caught at his eyes. He staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charley fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. But they had fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,—alone and blind.
"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says kindly. "How are your eyes?"
"I think—a bit—better."
The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden calamity, Charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured.
"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning it—didn't seem so—dark. It was like—a film over my eyes. Perhaps—it may—get better yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope confirmed.
"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes.
"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing "Snakes" by the throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do you see things like in a fog, Charley?"
"Yes, yes, just like that."
"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little things got to be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever."
"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously. "What did you do?"