“Take everything.”
“What shall I do with the stuff? Bring it here to New York?” the young man inquired, with growing curiosity.
The sick man’s blue eyes stared at him steadily, with a look of full intelligence.
“I shall be dead then,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I hope not!” Brainard remarked.
But with unflinching eyes, the sick man continued:
“You must have—pow-er—pow-er of attorney.”
He brought the words out with difficulty, not wasting his strength by discussing his chances of recovery. He was evidently growing weaker, and Brainard had to bend close to his lips in order to catch the faint whisper, “Take it down!”
And with his face beginning to twitch, and the convulsive tremors running over his body, the sick man summoned all his will and managed to dictate a power of attorney in legal terms, as if he were familiar with the formula. When he had finished, his eyes closed, and his lips remained open. Brainard dropped his paper and felt for the sick man’s heart. It was still beating faintly.
After a few moments, the eyes opened mistily, and again the man made an effort to collect himself for another effort.