Blind faith

This morning on the subway, I sat on the bench directly across from the door on the train.  As the train pulled to a stop at 23rd Street, I noticed two men on the platform waiting to board.  Even before the doors opened and I could see them fully in front of me, I saw the older white-haired gentleman turn to the black man on his left and extend his arm.  The doors opened to reveal the black man carrying a long feeler cane, leading me to presume he was blind.  The white-haired man directed him to take a step over the gap between the platform and the train, and the black man took a wide, exaggerated step into the train.  "Poor thing," I thought, as his cane jabbed into the woman next to me, "I can't imagine the hard time he has getting around the city."  I gave the white-haired man an appreciative smile, and he nodded back.  But as soon as he dropped the blind man's arm, the blind man took a swift turn to his left, walked two brisk steps forward, opened the pass-through door, and stepped sure-footed across the wobbly connection into the next car, while the train was moving.  

The white-haired gentleman, the unluckily-poked woman, and me (the trusting southerner) looked at each other in open-mouthed silence.  The man shrugged his shoulders.  The woman shook her head.  I couldn't resist, "That is the blind fooling the blind."  We laughed, but I like to think it is better to be the white-haired gentleman and have a little blind faith than a lot of blind doubt.