His hand was clenched tight on the edge of the table.
His eyes looked before him--through and beyond the riotous
crowd all about him--into vacancy, into the far past,
back into memories that I thought forgotten. His face
had altered. The senile, leering look was gone, and in
its place the firm-set face of the Knickerbocker of a
century ago.
He was speaking in a strange voice, deep and strong.
"Listen," he said, "listen. Do you hear it--there--far
out at sea--ships' guns--listen--they're calling for
help--ships' guns--far out at sea!" He had clasped me by
the arm. "Quick, to the Battery, they'll need every man
to-night, they'll--"
Then he sank back into his chair. His look changed again.
The vision died out of his eyes.
"What was I saying?" he asked. "Ah, yes, this old brandy,
a very special brand. They keep it for me here, a dollar
a glass. They know me here," he added in his fatuous way.
"All the waiters know me. The headwaiter always knows me
the minute I come into the room--keeps a chair for me.
Now try this brandy and then presently we'll move on and
see what's doing at some of the shows."
But somehow, in spite of himself, my companion seemed to
be unable to bring himself fully back into the consciousness
of the scene before him.
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