"I can give you fifty dollars," Gordon told him,
at once loud and conciliatory; wondering, at the
same time, how, if he did, Clare and himself would
manage. He had to pay for his board in Stenton;
the doctor for Clare had to be met -- fifty cents in
hand a visit, or the visits ceased.

"Have your little joke, then get out that hidden
stocking, pry up that particular fire brick... only
two hundred and fifty now... but -- now."

A hopeless feeling of impotence enveloped Gordon:
the small, dry man before him with the pink,
bald head shining in the lamplight, the set grin, was
as remote from any appeal as an insensate figure
cast in metal, a painted iron man in neat, grey alpaca,
a stiff, white shirt with a small blue button and
an exact, prim muslin bow.

Still, "I'll give you fifty, and thirty the next
month. Why, damn it, I'll pay you off in the year.
I'm not going to run away. I have steady work;
you know what I am getting; you're safe."

"But," Valentine Simmons lifted a hand in a
round, glistening cuff, "is anything certain in this
human vale? Is anything secure that might hang
on the swing of a... whip?"

With an unaccustomed, violent effort of will Gordon
Makimmon suppressed his angry concern at the
other's covert allusion: outside his occupation as
stage driver he was totally without resources, with-

[[43]]

p042 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p043w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p044

v?