There were speakers who talked of the dead man's virtues, his love for
people, scholarship and the arts, his keen brain and his genius. Mr.
Darrow sat listening to the eulogy of his dead friend and tears filled his
eyes. Poor George Foster--gone, in a coffin; to be buried out of sight in
a few hours. Then some one whispered to Mr. Darrow that a few words were
expected of him.
* * * * *
It was Mr. Darrow's good-bye to his dear friend. He stood up and his loose
figure and slyly malicious face wore an unaccustomed seriousness. The
audience waited, but the facile Mr. Darrow was having difficulty locating
his voice, his words. His eyes, blurred with tears, were still staring at
the coffin. Finally Mr. Darrow began. His dear friend. Dead. So charming a
man. So brilliant a mind. Dead now. He had been so amazingly alive it
seemed incredible that he should be dead. It was as if part of
himself--Mr. Darrow--lay in the coffin.
The eulogy continued, quiet, sincere, stirring tears in the audience and
filling their hearts with a realization of the grief that lay in Mr.
Darrow's heart. Then slowly the phrases grew clearer.
"We were old friends and we fought many battles of the mind," said Mr.
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