rapidly losing power. The woman threw herself on
his back, forced him to his knees. "Won't none of
you do for him?" she complained hysterically. She
pressed his head into her breast, and Mr. Ottinger
hit him below and just back of his ear. Gordon
slipped out full length on the floor.

He was waveringly conscious, but he had lost all
interest, all sense of personal connection, with the
proceedings. He dully watched Ottinger draw
back, tenderly fingering his damaged features; he
saw Em breathing stormily, empurpled. Jake, with
the crimson flames in his long, pallid mask, the
white saliva flecking his jaw, hung over him with a
glassy, intent stare.

"Get the stuff," the practical Ottinger urged;
"it's the stuff we're after. Don't go bug again."

"Jake don't hear you," Em told him, "he's off.
I'm glad the fella's going to be fixed, he jolted me
something fierce."

Jake swung the little, flexuous club softly against
his palm, and Gordon suddenly realized that the
cripple intended to kill him. -- That was the lust
which transfigured the gambler's countenance, which
lit the fires in the deathly cheeks, set the long fingers
shaking. Gordon considered the idea, and, obscurely,
it troubled him, moved him a space from
his apathy. Instinctively, in response to a sudden
movement of the figure above him, he drew his arm

[[66]]

p065 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p066w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p067

v?