Madison leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to stray, not impertinently but with pleased endorsement, around the room, to permit an unhampered opportunity for the scrutiny of the blue eyes which he felt upon him.
"And to think," he mused reproachfully, "that I could have doubted him for a single instant—he certainly hung one on me that time."
The Patriarch reached into the drawer of the table beside him, took out a slate and pencil, scratched a few words on the slate and handed both pencil and slate to Madison.
"Your name is Madison, isn't it?" Madison read. "From New York? Hiram told me about you."
"Hiram," said Madison to himself, "is a man of many parts, and the most useful man I have ever known. Hiram, by reflected glory, will some day become famous." On the slate he replied: "Yes; that is my name—John Madison. It was good of Mr. Higgins to speak of me."
The Patriarch held the slate within a bare inch or two of his face, and moved it back and forth before his eyes to follow the lines. As he lowered it, Madison reached for it politely.
"I am afraid you do not see very well," he scribbled. "Shall I write larger?"
Again the Patriarch deciphered the words laboriously; then he wrote, and handed the slate to Madison.
"I am going blind," he had written. "Please write as large as possible."
"Blind!"—Madison's attitude and expression were eloquent enough not only to be a perfect interpretation of his exclamation, but to convey his shocked and pained surprise as well.