It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot. We had
almost forgotten. It had been a story hitherto--a wonderful one to be
sure, and one to arouse conjecture. I had never thought that we were to
be brought to its shivering contact. It was out of the occult; it had
been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out
a guerdon of death to its votaries. Witness Chick Watson, the type of
healthy, fighting manhood--come to this. He opened his eyes feebly; one
could see the light; the old spirit was there--fighting for life. What
was this struggle of soul and flesh? Why had the soul hung on? He made
another effort.
“More drink,” he asked; “more drink. Anything to hold me together. I
must tell you. You must take my place and--and--fight the Blind Spot!
Promise that--”
“Order the drinks,” I told Hobart. “I see Dr. Hansen over there. Even if
we cannot save him we must hold him until we get his story.”