again?" he asked solicitously; "shall I get you the
ginger water?"

"None... in the house," she articulated laboriously;
"pretty... bad.

"No, don't leave me; just set; I'll be better in a
spell." He fetched her a glass of water, from
which she gulped spasmodically, clutching with
cold, wet fingers to his wrist. Then the tension relaxed,
her breathing grew more normal. "It's by
now," she proclaimed unsteadily.

"I'm going back the road for a little ginger," he
told her from the edge of the porch; "we'd best
have the bottle filled."

The drug store was dark, closed for the night, and
Gordon continued to Simmons' store. The row of
swinging, kerosene lamps cast a thick yellow radiance
over the long counters, the variously laden
shelves. The store was filled with the odor of coffee,
the penetrating smell of print muslins.

"Mr. Simmons wants you a minute in the office,"
the clerk responded indirectly to his request for ginger.
Gordon instinctively masked a gathering
premonition of trouble. "Fill her up the while," he
demanded, pushing forward the empty bottle.

Valentine Simmons was a small man with a
pinkly bald head ornamented with fluffs of white
hair like cotton wool above his ears, and precise,
shaven lips forever awry in the pronouncing of rally-

[[40]]

p039 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p040w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p041

v?