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."

I went and fetched Hansen over.

"A strange case," he murmured. "Pulse normal; not a trace of
fever. Not sick, you say--" Hobart pointed to his head. "Ah, I
see! I would suggest home and a bed."

Just here Watson opened his eyes again. They rested first upon the
doctor, then upon myself, and finally upon the brandy. He took it
up and drank it with eagerness. It was his third one; it gave him
a bit more life.

"Didn't I tell you, boys, that there is not a doctor on earth that
can save me? Excuse me, doc. I am not sick. I told them. I am far
past physic; I have gone beyond medicine. All I ask is stimulant
and life enough to tell my story."