“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.