AGAIN THE BATTLE.
Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching for support at chair arm.
"You struck me!" he mumbled, savagely. "You struck me. You'll fight me— fight me!"
He lifted weakly, balancing himself upon unsteady, weakened legs. Blake, stepping back, found his hand against a glass of water. He seized it— advanced a step—and cast the contents of the glass full into Schuyler's contorting face….
Schuyler slowly came to himself. The shock of the blows—of the words— and finally of the water against his head, sent the blood to his brain— banished the liquor, and the dementia, from it…. A weakened, miserable, pitiful imitation he was of the John Schuyler that had been. Yet it was John Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friend who had proven his friendship so often and so well.
Schuyler sat for a moment, eyes blinking. At length his hand went forth, slowly.
"Hello, Tom," he said. "I'm glad to see you." Puzzled eyes went about the room, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having been long asleep, awakens to find himself in a place unfamiliar.
Blake went to him, leaning over him.
"You can understand me now?" he asked, tensely.
Schuyler looked up.