He brushed me aside. But I clung to his arm.
He made an effort to jerk away from me. I said something to him; I don't
know now what it was, but I remember that I was very careful not to
raise my voice. I think he didn't reply at all; just kept on pulling
away from me.
But I clung. I did n't know what on earth I could do. There could be no
agreement, no arrangement, with this wild man. Everything had gone to
pieces. All my hopes for Heloise had been snuffed out in a moment.
And the thought that my grip on his arm was the only thing intervening
between her and a fate that I can not even bring myself to think about,
almost stops my heart, right now. Then, of course, there was no time to
consider even that; I just clung to him.
I think he must have caught hold of the rail at first with his right
hand, to steady himself as he silently tugged and jerked; for it was a
moment later that he struck me. I had swung around partly behind him,
fortunately, and the blow glanced off my head. It made me feel giddy for
a moment, but it was not effective. We tottered, and I think he caught
again at the rail to keep from falling.
I hung desperately to his thrashing arm, pillowing my head behind it to
keep out of his reach.
Then, looking down, I saw his feet, the left a step below the right. I
hooked my right foot around his left ankle, and, with all my strength,
pulled it toward me. I felt his leg give. I pulled harder; made one
great convulsive effort.
He tottered, and fell slowly backward, carrying me a little way with
him. Then I found myself sitting jammed against the wall, with a dazed,
aching head, while he slid clear to the ground floor and lay there, on
his back, his left leg doubled under him in a curiously unnatural way.
The manager, I remember, stood over him, very white, pulling with rapid
little jabs at his mustache, and saying nothing at all.
It was an oddly silent affair, from beginning to end. I remember looking
anxiously upward in the fear that Heloise had heard and run out. I
dreaded the look of anguish that would surely be on her face. But she
was not there.
I drew myself to my feet. A few steps below me lay the knife. I picked
it up, then went on down.
Some China boys were bringing a cot. They lifted Crocker, very
carefully, and laid him on it, then carried him into the office. He must
have been suffering intense pain; but he only set his teeth hard, and
once or twice drew in a quick, hissing breath.
I followed them in, and stood over him. After a moment he rolled his
head around and looked at me. I could see that he was puzzled.
“Where am I, Eckhart?” he asked.
“At the _Hôtel de Chine_.”
“The _Hôtel de_--That's where--”
“It is where I am stopping,” said I.
He whitened, and winced; whether in physical or mental pain I am unable
to say.
“My leg is broken,” he observed, a little later.