An entire night slipped away second by second, consumed by idle chatter that lacked any real significance.
Watson had no idea why he sought out the old cripple for conversation. Maybe because he truly had no friends or perhaps, during those excruciating nights, the old man was the only one he could disturb without reservation. In any case, between the old and young, a strange connection had been formed by the weak glow of the night's campfire and bottles of wine, both expensive and cheap.
The elder was undoubtedly a drunkard, willing to say almost anything for a drink.
He had boasted countless times of a once powerful and brilliant life, yet whenever Watson asked for his name, he was either refused or given a different answer each time.
