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My Friend Paton
by
Paton had slipped in going across the street, and a tramway car had run over him. He was not dead, though almost speechless; but his injuries were such that it was impossible that he should recover. He kept his eyes upon me; they were as bright as ever, though his face was deadly pale. He seemed to be trying to read my thoughts–to find out my feeling about him, and my opinion of his condition. I was terribly shocked and grieved, and my face no doubt showed it. By-and-by I saw his lips move, and bent down to listen.
“Confounded nuisance!” he whispered faintly in my car. “It’s all right, though; I’m not going to die this time. I’ve got something to do, and I’m going to do it–devil take me if I don’t!”
He was unable to say more, and soon after the surgeon came in. He made an examination, and it was evident that he had no hope. His shrug of the shoulders was not lost upon Paton, who frowned, and made a defiant movement of the lip. But presently he said to me, still in the same whisper, “John, if that old fool should be right–he won’t be, but in case of accidents–you must take charge of my things–the papers, and all. I’ll make you heir of my expectations! Write out a declaration to that effect: I can sign my name; and he’ll be witness.”
I did as he directed, and having explained to the surgeon the nature of the document, I put the pen in Paton’s hand; but was obliged to guide his hand with my own in order to make an intelligible signature. The surgeon signed below, and Paton seemed satisfied. He closed his eyes; his sufferings appeared to be very slight. But, even while I was looking at him, a change came over his face–a deadly change. His eyes opened; they were no longer bright, but sunken and dull. He gave me a dusky look–whether of rage, of fear, or of entreaty, I could not tell. His lips parted, and a voice made itself audible; not like his own voice, but husky and discordant. “I’m going,” it said. “But look out for me…. Do it yourself!”
“Der Herr ist todt” (the man is dead), said the surgeon the next minute.
It was true. Paton had gone out of this life at an hour’s warning. What purpose or desire his last words indicated, there was nothing to show. He was dead; and yet I could hardly believe that it was so. He had been so much alive; so full of schemes and enterprises. Nothing now was left but that crushed and haggard figure, stiffening on the bed; nothing, at least, that mortal senses could take cognizance of. It was a strange thought.
Paton’s funeral took place a few days afterward. I returned from the graveyard weary in body and mind. At the door of the house stood the portier, who nodded to me, and said,
“A very sad thing to happen, worthy sir; but so it is in the world. Of all the occupants of this house, one would have said the one least likely to be dead to-day was Herr Jeffries. Heh! if I had been the good Providence, I would have made away with the old gentleman of the etage below, who is of no use to anybody.”
This, for lack of a better, was Paton’s funeral oration. I climbed the three flights of stairs and let myself into our apartment–mine exclusively now. The place was terribly lonely; much more so than if Paton had been alive anywhere in the world. But he was dead; and, if his own philosophy were true, he was annihilated. But it was not true! How distinct and minute was my recollection of him–his look, his gestures, the tones of his voice. I could almost see him before me; my memory of him dead seemed clearer than when he was alive. In that invisible world of the mind was he not living still, and perhaps not far away.