you there? . . . Why don't you speak?" He stretched out his hand.
The lad took it, but he could not speak: he held it and sobbed.

Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a sudden trouble. He said:
"There, never mind. I'm dying, but it isn't what I expected. It doesn't
smart nor tear much; not more than river-rheumatism. P'r'aps I wouldn't
mind it at all if I could see."

For Phil was entirely blind now. The accident had destroyed his
remaining eye. Being blind, he had already passed that first corridor
of death--darkness. Roscoe stooped over him, took his hand, and spoke
quietly to him. Phil knew the voice, and said with a faint smile: "Do
you think they'd plant me with municipal honours--honours to pardners?"

"We'll see to that, Phil," said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman.

Phil recognised the voice. "You think that nobody'll kick at making it
official?"

"Not one, Phil."

"And maybe they wouldn't mind firin' a volley--Lights out, as it were:
and blow the big whistle? It'd look sociable, wouldn't it?"

"There'll be a volley and the whistle, Phil--if you have to go," said Mr.
Devlin.

There was a silence, then the reply came musingly: "I guess I hev to go.
. . . I'd hev liked to see the corporation runnin' longer, but maybe
I can trust the boys."