Regularly once a week Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene visited a hair-dresser.
This distinguished social leader employed a French maid who was very
adept at dressing hair, but the two never got along very well
verbally; Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene insisted on speaking in broken French
while the maid persisted in broken English. Such conversation is
naturally disjointed and leads nowhere. The particular hair-dresser
who received Mrs. Haldene's patronage possessed a lively imagination
together with an endless chain of gossip. Mrs. Haldene was superior to
gossiping with servants, but a hair-dresser is a little closer in
relation to life. Many visited her in the course of a week, and some
had the happy faculty of relieving their minds of what they saw and
heard regardless of the social status of the listener. Mrs. Haldene
never came away from the hair-dresser's empty-handed; in fact, she
carried away with her food for thought that took fully a week to
digest.
Like most places of its kind, the establishment was located in the
boarding-house district; but this did not prevent fashionable
carriages from stopping at the door, nor the neighboring boarders from
sitting on their front steps and speculating as to whom this or that
carriage belonged. There was always a maid on guard in the hall; she
was very haughty and proportionately homely. It did not occur to the
proprietress that this maid was a living advertisement of her
incompetence to perform those wonders stated in the neat little
pamphlets piled on the card-table; nor did it impress the patrons, who
took it for granted that the maid, naturally enough, could not afford
to have the operation of beauty performed.
A woman with wrinkles is always hopeful.
A strange medley of persons visited this house, each seeking in her
own peculiar way the elixir of life, which is beauty, or the potion of
love, which is beauty's handmaiden. There were remedies plus remedies;
the same skin-food was warranted to create double-chins or destroy
them; the same tonic killed superfluous hair or made it grow on bald
spots. A freckle to eradicate, a wrinkle to remove, a moth-patch to
bleach, a grey hair to dye; nothing was impossible here, not even
credulity. It was but meet that the mistress should steal past the
servant, that the servant should dodge the mistress. Every woman
craves beauty, but she does not want the public to know that her
beauty is of the kind in which nature has no hand. No man is a hero to
his valet; no woman is a beauty to her maid. In and out, to and fro;
the social leader, the shop-girl, the maid, the woman of the town, the
actress, the thin old spinster and the fat matron, here might they be
found.
At rare intervals a man was seen to ring the bell, but he was either a
bill-collector or a husband in search of his wife.
The proprietress knew everybody intimately--by sight. She was squat,
dyed, rouged and penciled, badly, too. She was written down in the
city directory as Madame de Chevreuse, but she was emphatically not of
French extraction. In her alphabet there were generally but
twenty-five letters; there were frequent times when she had no idea
that there existed such a letter as "g." How she came to appropriate
so distinguished a name as De Chevreuse was a puzzle. Her husband--for
she had a husband--was always reading French history in English,
and doubtless this name appealed to his imagination and romance.
Nobody knew what Madame's real name was, nor that of her husband, for
he was always called "Monseer."
The reception-room was decorated after the prevailing fashion. There
was gilt and pretense. There were numerous glass cases, filled with
lotions and skin-foods and other articles of toilet; there were
faceless heads adorned with all shades of hair, scalps, pompadours,
and wigs. A few false-faces grinned or scowled or smirked from frames
or corners where they were piled. There were tawdry masquerade
costumes, too, and theatrical make-up. Curtains divided the several
shampooing booths, and a screen cut off the general view of the
operation of beauty. However, there were chinks large enough for the
inquisitive, and everybody was inquisitive who patronized Madame de
Chevreuse, pronounced Chevroose.
And always and ever there prevailed without regeneration the odor of
cheap perfumes and scented soaps.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene left her carriage at the door, perfectly willing
that the neighborhood should see her alight. She climbed the steps,
stately and imposing. She was one of the few women who could overawe
the homely girl in the hallway.
"Is Madame at liberty?"
"She will be shortly, Mrs. Haldene."
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene passed into the reception-room and sat down by
the manicure table. The screen was in position. Some one was being
beautified. From time to time she heard voices.
"The make-up is taking splendidly to-day."
"Well, it didn't last week. I sweat pink beads all over my new
muslin."
"It does peel in hot weather. I understand that Mrs. Welford is going
to Dakota."
"He ought to have the first chance there, if what I've heard about her
is true. These society women make me tired."
"They haven't much to occupy their time."
"Oh, I don't know. They occupy their time in running around after the
other women's husbands."
"And the husbands?"
"The other men's wives."
"You aren't very charitable."
"Nobody's ever given me any charity, I'm sure."
From one of the shampooing booths:
"But you would look very well in the natural grey, ma'am."
"My husband doesn't think so."
"But his hair is grey."
"That doesn't lessen his regard for brunettes."
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shrugged her majestic shoulders and gazed again
into the street. She always regretted that Madame could not be induced
to make private visits.
A white poodle, recently shampooed, dashed through the rooms. There is
always a watery-eyed, red-lidded poodle in an establishment of this
order. The masculine contempt for the pug has died. It took twenty
years to accomplish these obsequies. But the poodle, the poor poodle!
Call a man a thief, a wretch, a villain, and he will defend himself;
but call him a poodle, and he slinks out of sight. It is impossible to
explain definitely the cause of this supreme contempt for the poodle,
nor why it should be considered the epitome of opprobrium to be called
one.
"Maime?"
"Yes, Madame!" replied the girl in the hall.
"Take Beauty into the kitchen and close the door. He's just been
washed, and I don't want him all speckled up with hair-dye."
The girl drove the poodle out of the reception-room and caught him in
the hall. Presently the kitchen door slammed and the odor of onions in
soup no longer fought against the perfumes and soaps for supremacy.
"There," said Madame behind the screen, "you have no rival in town now
for beauty."
"I'll be here again next Tuesday."
"Same time?"
"Yes, in the morning."
A woman emerged from behind the screen. She possessed a bold beauty,
the sort that appeals to men without intellect. She was dressed
extravagantly: too many furbelows, too many jewels, too many flowers.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene recognized her instantly and turned her head
toward the window. She heard the woman pass by her, enter the hall and
leave the house. She saw her walk quickly away, stop suddenly as if
she had forgotten something, open her large purse, turn its contents
inside out, replace them, and proceed. But a letter lay on the
sidewalk unnoticed. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene secretly hoped that it would
remain there till she made her departure.
"Handsome woman, isn't she?" said Madame. "I don't know what it is,
but they are always good-looking."
"Who is she?" asked Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, who knew very well who the
woman was.
"She is one of Mr. McQuade's lady friends."
"Indeed?"
"Yes." Madame was shrewd. She saw that it wouldn't do to tell Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene anything about a woman who could in no way be of use
to her. "Have you heard of the Sybil?"
"The Sybil?" repeated Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.
"Yes. A new fortune-teller, and everybody says she's a wonder. I
haven't been to her yet, but I'm goin' just as soon as I get time."
"Do you believe they know what they are talking about?" incredulously.
"Know! I should say I did. Old Mother Danforth has told me lots of
things that have come true. She was the one who predicted the Spanish
war and the president's assassination. It is marvelous, but she done
it."
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shuddered. With all her faults, she loved the
English language.
"How do you want your hair fixed?" Madame inquired, seeing that her
patron's interest in mediums was not strong.
"The same as usual. Last week you left a streak, and I am sure
everybody noticed it at the Gordon tea. Be careful to-day."
Thereupon Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene constituted herself a martyr to the
cause. She was nervous and fidgety in the chair, for the picture of
that letter on the sidewalk kept recurring. In the meantime Madame
told her all that had happened and all that hadn't, which is equally
valuable. The toilet lasted an hour; and when Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene
rose from the chair, Madame was as dry as a brook in August. Her
patron hurried to the street. The letter was still on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene picked it up and quickly sought her carriage.
Pah! how the thing smelt of sachet-powder. Her aristocratic nose
wrinkled in disdain. But her curiosity surmounted her natural
repugnance. The address was written in a coarse masculine hand. The
carriage had gone two blocks before she found the necessary courage to
open the letter. The envelope had already been opened, so in reading
it her conscience suggested nothing criminal.
Gossip began on the day Eve entered the Garden of Eden. To be sure,
there was little to gossip about, but that little Eve managed without
difficulty to collect. It is but human to take a harmless interest in
what our next-door neighbor is doing, has done, or may do. Primarily
gossip was harmless; to-day it is still harmless in some quarters. The
gossip of the present time is like the prude, always looking for the
worst and finding it. The real trouble with the gossip lies in the
fact that she has little else to do; her own affairs are so
uninteresting that she is perforce obliged to look into the affairs of
her neighbors. Then, to prove that she is well informed, she feels
compelled to repeat what she has seen or heard, more or less
accurately. From gossiping to meddling is but a trifling step. To back
up a bit of gossip, one often meddles. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was
naturally a daughter of Eve; she was more than a gossip, she was a
prophetess. She foretold scandal. She would move Heaven and earth, so
the saying goes, to prove her gossip infallible. And when some
prophecy of hers went wrong, she did everything in her power to right
it. To have acquired the reputation of prophesying is one thing,
always to fulfil these prophecies is another. It never occurred to her
that she was destroying other people's peace of mind, that she was
constituting herself a Fate, that she was meddling with lives which in
no wise crossed or interfered with her own. She had no real enmity
either for Warrington or Mrs. Jack; simply, she had prophesied that
Warrington had taken up his residence in Herculaneum in order to be
near Katherine Challoner, John Bennington's wife. Here was a year
nearly gone, and the smoke of the prophecy had evaporated, showing
that there had been no fire below.
Neither Warrington nor Mrs. Jack was in her thoughts when she opened
the letter, which was signed by McQuade's familiar appellation.
Dear Girl--I've got them all this trip. I'll put Bennington on the
rack and wring Warrington's political neck, the snob, swelling it
around among decent people! What do you think? Why, Warrington used to
run after the Challoner woman before she was married; and I have proof
that she went to Warrington's room one night and never left till
morning. How's that sound? They stick up their noses at you, do they?
Wait! They won't look so swell when I'm through with them. If
Warrington's name is even mentioned at the Republican convention, I've
missed my guess. I got your bills this morning. You'd better go light
till I've settled with these meddlers. Then we'll pack up our duds and
take that trip to Paris I promised you.
Mac.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shivered. How horribly vulgar! She felt polluted
for a moment, and half wished she had let the missive lie where it had
fallen. But this sense of disgust wore off directly. She had been
right, then; there was something wrong; it was her duty, her duty to
society, to see that this thing went no further. And that flirtation
between Patty and the dramatist must be brought to a sudden halt. How?
Ah, she would now find the means. He was merely hoodwinking Patty; it
was a trick to be near Mrs. Jack. She had ignored her, had she? She
had always scorned to listen to the truth about people, had she? And
well she might! Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's lips tightened. Those friends
of hers who had doubted would presently doubt no more. She hadn't the
slightest idea how McQuade would use his information; she didn't even
care, so long as he used it. She grew indignant. The idea of that
woman's posing as she did! The idea of her dreaming to hold
permanently the footing she had gained in society! It was nothing
short of monstrous. The ever-small voice of conscience spoke, but she
refused to listen. She did not ask herself if what McQuade had in his
possession was absolute truth. Humanity believes most what it most
desires to believe. And aside from all this, it was a triumph, a
vindication of her foresight.
"To the Western Union," she called to the groom. When the carriage
drew up before the telegraph office, she gave the letter to the groom.
"I found this on the sidewalk. Have them return it to the owner by
messenger." This was done. "Now, home," she ordered.
That afternoon she attended a large reception. Her bland smile was as
bland as ever, but her eyes shone with suppressed excitement. The
Benningtons were there, but there was only a frigid nod when she
encountered Mrs. Jack and Patty. She wondered that she nodded at all.
She took her friend, Mrs. Fairchilds, into a corner. She simply had to
tell some one of her discovery, or at least a hint of it.
"Do you recollect what I told you?"
"About--?" Mrs. Fairchilds glanced quickly at Mrs. Jack.
"Yes. Every word was true, and there will be a great upheaval shortly.
But not a word to a soul. I never gossip, but in this instance I feel
it my duty to warn you. How and where I learned the truth is
immaterial. I have learned it, and that is sufficient. It is
frightful; it makes my blood boil when I think of it. And she goes
everywhere, as if she had a perfect right."
"What have you found?" Mrs. Fairchilds could scarcely breathe, so
great was her curiosity.
"You will learn soon enough without my telling you." And that was all
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene would say.
But it was enough, enough for her purpose. Within an hour's time all
the old doubt had been stirred into life again, and the meddlers
gathered about for the feast. It is all so simple and easy.
Mrs. Jack moved here and there, serenely beautiful, serenely happy,
serenely unconscious of the blow that was soon to strike at the very
heart of her life. Once in a while her brows would draw together
abstractedly. She was thinking of John, and of the heartaches he was
having over the action of the men at the shops.
Patty was not gay. She seemed to be impatient to leave. Three or four
times she asked Mrs. Jack if she were ready to go; she was tired, the
people bored her, she wanted to go home. Finally Mrs. Jack
surrendered.
That night at dinner John was very quiet and absent-minded. The shops,
the shops, he was thinking of them continuously. In his heart of
hearts he had no faith in the reporter's influence. The strike mania
had seized the men, and nothing now could hold them back. He knew they
would doubt his threat to tear down the buildings. Not till he sent
the builder's wrecking crew would they understand. Not a hair's
breadth, not the fraction of an inch; if they struck, it would be the
end. He gazed at his wife, the melting lights of love in his handsome
eyes. Hey-dey! She would always be with him, and together they would
go about the great world and forget the injustice and ingratitude of
men. But it was going to be hard. Strong men must have something to
lay their hands to. He knew that he could not remain idle very long;
he must be doing something. But out of the shops he felt that he would
be like a ship without steering apparatus--lost, aimless, purposeless.
"John?"
He woke from his dream, and forced a smile to his lips.
"You haven't eaten anything."
"I'm not hungry, dear."
"You haven't spoken half a dozen words since you came home."
"Haven't I? I must have been thinking."
"About the shops?" laying her hand on his and pressing it strongly.
"Yes. I'm afraid, heart o' mine, that it's all over. If they do not
strike now, they will later on; if not on this pretext, on some
other."
"Why not let him go, John?"
"No." His jaws hardened. "It isn't a question of his going or staying;
it is simply a question of who is master, the employed or the
employer. The men say it's the principle of the thing; it shall be
fought out on those grounds. I'm going down to the club to-night with
Dick. I feel the need of getting out and breathing. Dick's not the
best company just now, but he'll understand what I need. Poor devil!
he's got his hands full, too."
She understood his mood, and offered no objection. She raised his hand
and brushed it with her lips.
"I love you, John."
He smiled gratefully.
"You go over to mother's for the evening, and I'll drop in on the way
home and pick you up."
Patty was in the music-room, so Mrs. Jack did not disturb her, but
started at her basket-work. Mrs. Bennington read till eight, and
retired. Patty played all the melancholy music she could think of.
When love first makes its entrance into the human heart, there is
neither joy nor gladness nor gaiety. On the contrary, there is a vast
shadow of melancholy, a painful sadness, doubt and cross-purpose,
boldness at one moment and timidity at the next, a longing for
solitude. Music and painting and poetry, these arts that only
attracted, now engage.
So Patty played.
Sometimes Mrs. Jack looked up from her work, wondering. She had never
heard Patty play so many haunting, dismal compositions. At nine the
telephone rang, and she dropped her work instantly, thinking the call
might be from John. Ah, if the men would only listen to reason!
"Hello!"
"Is Mrs. Bennington at home?" asked a voice, unfamiliar to her ears.
"There are two. Which one do you wish?"
"Mrs. John Bennington."
"This is Mrs. John Bennington speaking. What is it?"
There was a pause.
"I have something very important to communicate to you. In the first
place, you must use your influence in making Mr. Warrington withdraw
his name as a candidate for nomination."
"Who is this speaking?" she asked sharply.
"Mr. McQuade."
The receiver nearly fell from her hand. McQuade? What in the world--
"Did you get the name?"
"Yes. But I fail to understand what you are talking about. I warn you
that I shall ring off immediately."
"One moment, please. If you hang up the receiver, you will regret it.
I wish you no ill, Mrs. Bennington. If it were possible I should like
to talk with you personally, for this matter deeply concerns your
future happiness. I can not call; I have been ordered out of your
husband's house. It lies in your power to influence Warrington to drop
his political ambition. Information has come to my hand that would not
look very well in the newspapers. It is in my power to stop it, but I
promise not to lift a hand if you refuse."
"I not only refuse, but I promise to repeat your conversation to my
husband this very night." With that Mrs. Jack hung up the receiver.
She rose, pale and terribly incensed. The low fellow! How dared he,
how dared he! "Patty!" The call brooked no dallying.
The music ceased. Patty came out, blinking.
"You called me, Kate?"
"Patty, McQuade has been calling me up on the telephone."
"Who?"
"McQuade, McQuade! He says that if I do not influence Mr. Warrington
to withdraw his name--Did you ever hear of such a thing? I am
furious! What can it mean? He says he has heard something about me
which he can suppress but will not if I--Why, Patty, what shall I do?
What shall I do?" She crushed her hands together wildly.
"Tell John," said Patty sensibly.
"John? He would thresh McQuade within an inch of his life."
"Tell Warrington, then."
"He would do the same as John. But what can the wretch have found? God
knows, Patty, I have always been a good, true woman. ... Think of that
man's telephoning me!"
Patty ran to her side and flung her arms about her brother's wife.
Patty loved her.
"Don't you bother your head, darling. It can't be anything but a
political dodge; it can't be anything serious. McQuade is low enough
to frighten women, but don't let him frighten you. I know he lies,"
said the loyal Patty. "And now that I think it over, it would be best
to say nothing to John or Richard. Fisticuffs would get into the
papers, and it's my opinion that's just what this man McQuade wants.
He could swear to a thousand lies, if the matter became public. But
oh!" clenching her hands fiercely, "I'd give a year of my life to see
John thresh him. But you say nothing; let us wait and see."
Wise Patty!
At that very moment McQuade sat swinging in his swivel-chair. There
was a smile of satisfaction on his face.
"That'll bring 'em," he said aloud, though he was alone. "That'll
bring 'em both up here, roaring like lions. They'll muss up the
furniture, and then I can tell the reporters all about it. Even
Walford can't object this time."
He rubbed his hands together like Shylock at the thought of his pound
of flesh. He had waited a long time. They had ordered him, McQuade.
who held the city in his hand--they had ordered him out of the house.
Not a grain of mercy, not half a grain. Two birds with one stone. He
was shrewd for all his illiteracy. He knew women passably well. This
one would tell her husband, who would seek for immediate vengeance.
But sometimes chance overthrows the best-laid plans of cleverness and
foresight. And this remarkable plan of McQuade's was deranged by a
chance guess by Patty.
Meantime at Martin's it was growing lively. The bar was crowded, the
restaurant was being liberally patronized, and persons went up the
stairs that did not return. Jordan paid the check, and he and Osborne
went out.
"When'll they go out, Ben?"
"Monday."
"Too bad. I wish I'd been sober."
"I'll break Morrissy's head one of these fine days. Let's go over to
Johnny's; there's music over there."
"All right, Ben."
"And no more booze, mind."
"Just as you say."
Up stairs the gambling-den was doing a good business. The annual
trotting meet had brought many sporting men to town. They were
standing around the faro table; the two roulette wheels were going,
and the Klondike machine spun ceaselessly. There were a dozen stacks
of chips in front of Bolles. He was smiling, flushed with triumph and
whisky.
"Three hundred to the good, old boy!" he said to the man who spun the
ivory ball. "I'll break you fellows to-night."
"Bring Mr. Bolles another whisky," said the proprietor.
"I'll take all you can bring."
"You're a tank, sure."
"You bet!" Bolles grinned.
So did the banker, covertly. He had seen the comedy played a thousand
times. Few men ever took away their winnings, once they started in to
drink, and Bolles was already drunk. He lost his next bet. He doubled
and lost again. Then he stacked his favorite number. The ball rolled
into it, but jumped the compartment, wizard-wise, and dropped into
single-o. Bolles cursed the luck. Another whisky was placed at his
elbow. He drank it at a gulp.
"Make the limit five," he cried.
The banker nodded to the man at the wheel.
Bolles made six bets. He lost them. A quarter of an hour later his
entire winnings had passed over the table. He swore, and drew out a
roll of bills. He threw a fifty on the black. Red won. He doubled on
black. Red won. He plunged. He could not win a single bet. He tried
numbers, odd and even, the dozens, splits, squares, column. Fortune
had withdrawn her favor.
"Hell!"
He played his last ten on black, and lost.
"Let me have a hundred."
The banker shook his head and pointed to the signs on the wall:
"Checks for money, money for checks, no mouth-bets."
Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile search.
"Not a damned cent!" he shouted. "Cleaned out!"
"Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot," said the banker. "But you can't play it
here, Bolles," was the warning.
Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose. He was very drunk; he
himself did not realize how drunk he was till he started for the door.
He staggered and lurched against the sideboard. His hat rolled from
his head. An attendant quickly recovered it, and Bolles slapped it on
his head.
"Get out o' the way! It's a snide game, anyhow. You've got wires on
the machine. You've got seven hundred o' my money, and you give me
ten! Hell!"
They opened the door for him and he stumbled out into the dark,
unlighted hallway. He leaned against the wall, trying to think it out,
searching his pockets again and again. Why in hell hadn't he left some
of the money with the bartender? Broke, clean, flat broke! And he had
pushed his winnings up to three hundred! He became ugly, now that he
fully realized what had happened. He ground his teeth and cursed
loudly; he even kicked the door savagely. Then he swung rather than
walked down the stairs. He turned into the bar and bought three more
whiskies, and was then primed for any deviltry. He was very drunk, but
it was a wide-awake drunkenness, cruel and revengeful. He turned into
the alley and tried to think of some plan by which he could borrow
enough to make a new attempt at fickle fortune. To-morrow he could
strike McQuade again, but to-night McQuade wouldn't listen to him.
Every once in a while he would renew the searching of his pockets, but
there was only the remainder of the ten the banker had given him.
John and Warrington had played an uninteresting game of billiards at
the club, then finally sought the night and tramped idly about the
streets. With Warrington it was sometimes his aunt, sometimes the new
life that beat in his heart when he saw Patty, sometimes this game he
was playing which had begun in jest and had turned to earnest. With
John it was the shops, the shops, always and ever the shops. When they
spoke it was in monosyllables. Nevertheless it was restful to each of
them to be so well understood that verbal expression was not
necessary. They had started toward Martin's on the way home, when
Warrington discovered that he was out of cigars. He ran back three or
four doors while John proceeded slowly. Just as he was about to cross
the alley-way a man suddenly lurched out into the light. He was
drunk, but not the maudlin, helpless intoxication that seeks and
invites sociability. He was murderously drunk, strong, nervous,
excited. He barred Bennington's way.
"I thought it was you!" he said venomously.
Bennington drew back and started to pass around the man. He did not
recognize him. He saw in the action only a man disorderly drunk. But
he hadn't taken two steps before the other's words stopped him
abruptly.
"You're a millionaire, eh? Well, I'll soon fix you and your actress
and her lover. Take that as a starter!"
He struck Bennington savagely on the cheek-bone. Bennington stumbled
back, but managed to save himself from falling. Instantly all the war
that was in his soul saw an outlet. He came back, swift as a panther
and as powerful. In an instant his assailant was on his back on the
pavement, the strong fingers tightening about the wretch's throat;
Bolles was a powerful man, but he had not the slightest chance. Not a
sound from either man. There were one or two pedestrians on the
opposite side of the street, but either these did not see or would
not.
Warrington had made a hurried purchase. As he left the cigar store, he
saw the two men fall. He ran up quickly, wondering what the trouble
was. He had no idea that John was one of the men, but as he saw the
light grey suit, and the Panama lying on the ground, he knew.
"For God's sake, John, what are you doing?" he cried.
With a superhuman effort he dragged the enraged man from the prostrate
form in the road. It no longer struggled, but lay inert and without
motion.
"Was I killing him, Dick?" said John, in a quavering voice. "He struck
me and--Am I mad, or has the world turned upside down in a minute?"
"What did he say?" asked Warrington. He was badly frightened. He knelt
at the side of Bolles and felt of his heart. It still beat.
"What did he say? Nothing, nothing!--Where's my hat? I'm going home--
Have I--?"
"No, he's alive; but I came just in time."
At this moment Bolles turned over and slowly struggled to a sitting
posture. His hands went feebly toward his throat.
"He's all right," said Warrington. "We'd better light out. Now what
the devil--"
"He struck me. He was drunk. I've been in a fighting mood all day.
Call that carriage."
When Mrs. Jack saw him she screamed.
"John!"
"The asphalt was wet, girl, and I took a bad fall." But John lied with
ill grace.