“Friend, I am in reality a spectacle-peddler—”
His glance shifted uncomfortably to my gray bag.
“And I want to sell you a pair of spectacles,” I said. “I see that you are nearly blind.”
“Me blind!”
It would be utterly impossible to describe the expression on his face. His hand went involuntarily to his eyes, and he glanced quickly, somewhat fearfully, about.
“Yes, nearly blind,” said I. “I saw it when I first met you. You don't know it yourself yet, but I can assure you it is a bad case.”
I paused, and shook my head slowly. If I had not been so much in earnest, I think I should have been tempted to laugh outright. I had begun my talk with him half jestingly, with the amusing idea of breaking through his shell, but I now found myself tremendously engrossed, and desired nothing in the world (at that moment) so much as to make him see what I saw. I felt as though I held a live human soul in my hand.
“Say, partner,” said the road-worker, “are you sure you aren't—” He tapped his forehead and began to edge away.
I did not answer his question at all, but continued, with my eyes fixed on him:
“It is a peculiar sort of blindness. Apparently, as you look about, you see everything there is to see, but as a matter of fact you see nothing in the world but this road—”