I'm not a fool. There's too much
carelessness about such things. People often don't give themselves a
chance to get right by being in too big a hurry. So, keep me in darkness
to-day, if you want to, old man. For a hustler I'm not in too big a
hurry, you see. I'm for holding back to get a bigger jump."
"You can't be in a big hurry, even if you want to, Ingolby," rejoined
Rockwell, gripping the wrist of the sick man, and leaning over him.
Ingolby grew suddenly very still. It was as though vague fear had seized
him and held him in a vice. "What is it? What do you want to say to
me?" he asked in a low, nerveless tone.
"You've been hit hard, Chief. The ricochet has done you up for some
time. The head will soon get well, but I'm far from sure about your
eyes. You've got to have a specialist about them. You're in the dark,
and as for making you see, so am I. Your eyes and you are out of
commission for some time, anyhow."
He leaned over hastily, but softly and deftly undid the bandages over the
eyes and took them off. "It's seven in the morning, and the sun's up,
Chief, but it doesn't do you much good, you see."
The last two words were the purest accident, but it was a strange,
mournful irony, and Rockwell flushed at the thought of it.
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