Meditating upon this important decision, the young man entered his own block. At one end the elevated trains rattled; at the other, heavy drays lumbered past in an unbroken file on their way to the ferries; but between the two there was a strip of quiet, where the dingy old houses were withdrawn from the street, and in front of them a few dusty shrubs struggled for life in the bare plots of earth.
In the middle of this block there was an unusually animated scene. A group of children had huddled together about some object of interest. A horse must have fallen on the pavement, the young man thought dully, or there was a fight, or a policeman had made a capture.
He hurried his lagging steps, moved by a boyish curiosity. As he drew nearer, he perceived that the circle was too small to contain a horse or a good scrap. The center of interest must be some unfortunate human being. He shouldered his way through the crowd.
“What’s up?” he asked of a small boy.
“A drunk,” was the laconic reply.
Looking over the heads of the boys, the young man could see the figure of a stoutish, well-dressed man lying prone on the pavement. His black coat was spattered with mud, his gray hair rumpled. His eyes were closed, and through the open lips his tongue protruded.
“Say, he’s bad!” the boy observed knowingly. “Just look at him!”
A convulsion shook the prostrate figure. The face began to twitch, and one arm waved violently, beating the air. One or two more mature passers-by who had been attracted by the disturbance drew off, with the selfish city excuse that the proper authorities would come in time and attend to the nuisance. Not so the idle young man.
“He isn’t drunk!” he exclaimed, pushing his way into the circle and stooping over the figure. He had seen too many plain “drunks” in his newspaper days to be deceived in the symptoms.
“There he goes again!” the boys shouted.
“He has some sort of fit. Here, one of you give me a hand, and we’ll get him off the street!”
The boys readily helped the young man to drag the prostrate figure to the nearest steps, and one of them ran to the corner after a policeman. When the officer arrived, the young man, who had steadied the stranger through another convulsion, said:
“You’ll have to call an ambulance. We’d better carry him somewhere—can’t let him lie here in the street like a dog. We can take him to my room.”
He motioned toward the next house, and with the officer’s assistance carried the sick man into the rear room on the first floor, which he unlocked. Then the policeman drove the curious boys out of the house and went off to summon the ambulance. Left alone, the young man dipped a towel in his water-pitcher, wet the sick man’s brow, then wiped his face and cleaned the foam and dirt from his beard and lips.
The stranger, lying with half-closed eyes, looked to be rather more than sixty years of age. Judging from the quality of his clothes, and from his smooth hands, he was a well-to-do business man. Presently his eyelids began to twitch, then the whole face; the right leg shot out and beat the air; then the right arm began to wave, and foam oozed from his lips.
“I wish they’d hurry that ambulance!” the young man thought, as he wiped the sick man’s face again with the damp towel. “He won’t last long, at this rate!”
This convulsion gradually passed off as the others had, and the stranger lay once more as if dead, his eyes almost wholly closed. The young man went to the door and listened nervously, then returned to the prostrate form, unbuttoned the coat, and felt for the heart. Immediately the sick man opened his eyes, and, looking directly into the eyes of the man bending over him, tried to raise his hand, as if he would protect himself from a blow.
“It’s all right!” the young man said reassuringly. “I was just feeling for your heart, friend.”
The sick man’s lips twitched desperately; and finally, in the faintest whisper, he managed to stammer:
“Wh-who are you?”
“One Edgar Brainard,” the young man replied promptly. “Let me unfasten this vest and make you more comfortable.”
“N-n-no!” the sick man gasped suspiciously.
He managed to clutch Brainard’s wrist with his wavering right hand; his left lay quite powerless by his side. His eyes closed again, but the lips moved silently, as if he were trying to frame sounds.
“He’s going this time, sure!”
The young man slipped his wrist from the feeble grasp, inserted a pillow under the sick man’s head, and sat back to wait.
II
It was very still in that back room. No step sounded in the hall, and the noise from the street came muffled. In the stillness, the sick man’s desperate efforts to breathe filled the little room with painful sounds. Brainard felt the stifling approach of death, and opened the window wide to get what air would come in from the small court outside.
He studied the figure on the lounge more closely. The thick, red under lip curled over the roots of the gray beard. A short, thick nose gave the face a look of strong will, even of obstinacy. There was a foreign expression to the features that might indicate German descent.
On the third finger of his right hand, the sick man wore an old, plain gold ring, which had sunk deep into the flesh. From the inside pocket of his short coat bulged a thick wallet, over which his right hand rested, as if to guard precious possessions.
“He thought I was going to rob him!” Brainard observed. “Expect he’s been up against it already—and that’s what’s the trouble.”
It was quite dark. The young man lighted a gas-jet, then went again to the door. As he stood there, listening, he felt the old man’s eyes on him, and turned to look at him. The eyes, now wide open, held him, asking what the lips refused to utter.
Brainard went back to his patient and leaned over to catch the flutter from the moving lips. At last, as if with great exertion, the murmur came:
“Wh-wh-what are you go-going to do—to do—with me?”
In spite of the faintness of the whisper, it was the voice of one accustomed to being answered.
“I’ve sent an officer for an ambulance,” Brainard replied. “It ought to be here before now, I should think. They’ll take you to some hospital and fix you up,” he added encouragingly.
The lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, then mumbled:
“No—not—th-this time.”
“What’s the matter—accident?” Brainard asked.
The sick man did not attempt to reply, as if he considered the question of trifling importance. Instead, his eyes studied the young man’s face intently. Evidently his brain was clearing from the shock, whatever had caused it, and he was revolving some purpose. Soon the lips began to move once more, and Brainard bent close to catch the faint sounds.
“Wh-wh-what’s your bus-bus-i-ness?”
“Oh, I’ve had lots of businesses,” the young man replied carelessly. “Been on a newspaper, in the ad business, real estate, and so on.” He added after