Awkwardly we followed the fleet-footed nurse who glided
ahead of us down the wide hospital corridors, past
doorways through which we caught glimpses of white beds
that were no whiter than the faces that lay on the
pillows. We came at last into a very still and bright
little room where Blackie lay.
Had years passed over his head since I saw him last?
The face that tried to smile at us from the pillow was
strangely wizened and old. It was as though a withering
blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the same.
They glowed in the sunken face, beneath the shock of
black hair, with a startling luster and brilliancy.
I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know
what magic medicine gave him the strength to smile at us,
dying as he was even then.
"Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?" he
piped in a high, thin voice. The shock of relief was too
much. We giggled hysterically, then stopped short and
looked at each other, like scared and naughty children.
"Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking
parts. Don't make me do all the social stunts. What's
the news? What kind of a rotten cotton sportin' sheet is
that dub Callahan gettin' out? Who won to-day--Cubs or
Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie
on you?"
He was so like the Blackie we had always known that
we were at our ease immediately.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279