The antiseptic odor stung at Logan’s nose. This bleak hospital ward gave him the chills, and he especially didn’t like seeing his friend lying between those stark white sheets. He suddenly looked so old and vulnerable.
He approached Skittles’ bed with uncharacteristic timidity, his damp fedora in hand and an uncomfortable look on his face. He attempted a smile, but his eyes lacked their usual lively glint. The doleful effect could certainly not have been much of a comfort to the patient.
“How are you, Skits?” Logan’s voice started to crack. It was all he could do to sound cheerful.
“I must be a goner, lad, t’ ’ave landed in a pokey joint like this,” replied the old bookie.
“Not a bit of it,” answered Logan, still standing stiffly while nervously fingering the rim of his hat. “These days they put folks in the hospital for every little thing. Modern medicine, you know.”
“I s’pose time’ll tell.”
“You’ll be out of here before tomorrow’s first race at Epsom.”
Skittles gravely motioned his head to one side. “Get a chair, lad. I ’ave something t’ talk o’er with you.”
Logan found a chair on the other side of the ward, carried it to Skittles’ bedside, and straddled it with his arms folded across the back.
“If you’re worried about the shop,” Logan said, “there’s no need. Billy and I will take care of it. And he swore he’d do no drinking while he was in charge.”
“’Tis not the shop I’m worryin’ about.” Skittles paused to cough, a deep wrenching cough. “But I s’pose the shop’s got somethin’ t’ do with it,” he began once more.
“Just tell me what it is, Skits. Anything I can do to help.”
“Laying ’ere, a man’s got time t’ think. An’ I been wondering wot I could give t’ you after I’m gone . . .”
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Skittles held up a hand to quiet him. “Just listen t’ me, Logan,” he said. “I thought about leavin’ you the shop. But I just can’t bring myself to it. I’m going t’ leave it t’ Billy. He’ll do good by it, and give a percentage of the profits t’ take care of Molly—not that you wouldn’t do the same, lad. I know you would. But . . .”
He sighed, reached for a glass of water by his bedside, and took several long swallows before continuing. “I just wouldn’t feel right bein’ responsible for keeping you in this business—”
“What do you mean, Skits? I’m happy enough with what I do.”
“Just let me finish.” As he spoke, Skittles’ voice was becoming more labored. Therefore Logan obeyed, albeit reluctantly. “’Tis a rotten business we’re in, Logan. Oh, maybe we ain’t villainous to the core like Morgan an’ ’is bunch. But when was the last time you made any honest money? You’re a bright boy, an’ you can make somethin’ better of yourself. There! That’s wot I wanted t’ say!”
“I’ve made just what I want of myself,” answered Logan, both in defense of himself and to try to put his friend at ease.
“You say that only because you don’t know nothin’ else. Get out of it!” pleaded the old man, “before it’s too late. Before you wind up goin’ the way of Chase Morgan.”
“You can’t really think that could ever happen to me?”
“I’ve seen many a good lad turn cold and ’ard with greed.”
But even as he spoke Logan shook his head with a stubborn look which said he had stopped listening. Skittles exhaled a defeated sigh. “Guess it’ll take more’n the words of an ol’ reprobate like me to make you understand.”
“Don’t go on talking like that, Skits—” Logan’s words faltered and his voice nearly broke. Steadily he bit back the rising emotion in his throat. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known and . . . well, you just better get out of that bed in a hurry, because I need you, you crotchety old windbag!”
Logan jumped out of his chair and strode over to the window where he looked intently out as if something of great interest had suddenly caught his attention. In truth, he did not want anyone—least of all Skittles—to see the moisture filling his eyes.
“You don’t need me, lad,” Skittles replied with deep affection. He too brushed a hand across his misting eyes, for Logan was the son of his later years that he and Molly had never had in their youth. “Though your sentiment does me old ’eart good to ’ear it, I can’t say for certain wot it tis you’re needing, but it ain’t the likes of me.”
Logan did not reply. He knew his voice would betray him.
Silence filled the room for a few moments, each of the men struggling to maintain the long-practiced street tradition of keeping emotions well buried. When Logan again felt certain of his control, he turned and walked back to the bed.
“I almost forgot,” he said, forcing a light casual tone into his words as he took the checkered cap from his pocket. “I got your hat back for you.” He held it out and Skittles took it, new tears rising in his weary eyes at the sight.
“I figured you might be needing it soon,” Logan added.
“Molly bought this for me ten years ago,” the old man said tenderly, “to replace one just like it I lost in a—you might say in a little skirmish at Ascot. I only take it off to sleep.”
He lay contemplating the cap for a minute, then held it back out to Logan.
“All I do in this place is sleep. ’Ere, Logan. Would you take care of the cap for me . . . until I need it again?”
Logan said nothing.
He reached forward, clutched the cap in his hand, and turned to leave the room.
“You’ll think about it, lad . . . wot I said?” Skittles called out after him.
Logan stopped, turned, looked one last time at his friend where he lay, then nodded. “Yeah, Skits,” he said. “Promise.”