Short Stories
smile had gone from his face, and there was on it an intent ex-
pression, as if he were listening to some inner tale of himself
and trying to divine the message. Matt got up and walked
across the room and back again, then sat down.
"You did this, Jim," he said quietly.
"But I didn't think you'd try to fix me," Jim answered re-
proachfully.
"Oh, I fixed you all right," Matt said, with teeth close to-
gether and shivering body. "What did you give me?"
"Strychnine."
"Same as I gave you," Matt volunteered. "It's a hell of a
mess, ain't it?"
"You're Iyin', Matt," Jim pleaded. "You ain't doped me,
have you?"
"I sure did, Jim; an' I didn't overdose you, neither. I cooked it
in as neat as you please in your half the porterhouse.—Hold on!
Where're you goin'?"
Jim had made a dash for the door, and was throwing back
the bolts. Matt sprang in between and shoved him away.
"Drug store," Jim panted. "Drug store."
"No you don't. You'll stay right here. There ain't goin' to be
any runnin' out an' makin' a poison play on the street--not with
all them jools reposin' under the pillow. Savve? Even if you did-
n't die, you'd be in the hands of the police with a whole lot of ex-
planations comin'. Emeetics is the stuff for poison. I'm just as
bad bit as you, an' I'm goin' to take a emetic. That's all they'd
give you at a drug store, anyway."
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