No one
dreams of moving it. There it dangles, out at elbows,
disreputable, its pockets burned from many a hot pipe
thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels
bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen.
It is that faded old garment, more than anything
else, which makes us fail to realize that its owner will
never again slip into its comfortable folds. We cannot
believe that a lifeless rag like that can triumph over
the man of flesh and blood and nerves and sympathies.
With what contempt do we look upon those garments during
our lifetime! And how they live on, defying time, long,
long after we have been gathered to our last rest.
In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for
two days after that ghastly ride. Peter had been killed
instantly, the doctors said. They gave no hope for
Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises
and scratches was due, they said, to the fact that I had
sat in the tonneau. I heard them all, in a stupor of
horror and grief, and wondered what
plan Fate had in store for me, that I alone should have
been spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in
charge, and I saw Von Gerhard, but all three appeared dim
and shadowy, like figures in a mist.
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