VII. — THE RING
It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot. We had almost forgotten. It had been a story hitherto—a wonderful one to be sure, and one to arouse conjecture. I had never thought that we were to be brought to its shivering contact. It was out of the occult; it had been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out a guerdon of death to its votaries. Witness Chick Watson, the type of healthy, fighting manhood—come to this. He opened his eyes feebly; one could see the light; the old spirit was there—fighting for life. What was this struggle of soul and flesh? Why had the soul hung on? He made another effort.
“More drink,” he asked; “more drink. Anything to hold me together. I must tell you. You must take my place and—and—fight the Blind Spot! Promise that—”
“Order the drinks,” I told Hobart. “I see Dr. Hansen over there. Even if we cannot save him we must hold him until we get his story.”
I went and fetched Hansen over.
“A strange case,” he murmured. “Pulse normal; not a trace of fever. Not sick, you say—” Hobart pointed to his head. “Ah, I see! I would suggest home and a bed.”
Just here Watson opened his eyes again. They rested first upon the doctor, then upon myself, and finally upon the brandy. He took it up and drank it with eagerness. It was his third one; it gave him a bit more life.
“Didn't I tell you, boys, that there is not a doctor on earth that can save me? Excuse me, doc. I am not sick. I told them. I am far past physic; I have gone beyond medicine. All I ask is stimulant and life enough to tell my story.”
“My boy,” asked the doctor kindly, “what ails you?”
Watson smiled. He touched himself on the forehead.