"You wolf!" she accused, in low, passionately vibrant tones. "Kill, kill, kill! You and your kind. Is it then so great a pleasure to you? Shame to you for mad beasts! And greater shame to the cur dogs who let you do it." Her glance swept the averted faces with blasting scorn. "Come, Fritz." She led the boy out and the door was closed carefully after her by a sheepish-looking individual whose position behind it and out of sight of those scornful eyes had been envied by every man in the room. "Well—I ’m—d—d!" said Tex, recovering his voice. "’They that touch pitch will be defiled,’" observed Whitby, sententiously. Tex looked his resentment. He felt a touch on his leg and glanced down. Dave had recovered consciousness. "Get off me, Comin’," he requested. "Who hit me?" "Boomerang flung a bottle at you," informed Tex. "How you feeling?" "All serene. Head ’s dizzy," he added, swaying on his feet. He walked to the nearest chair and sat down. "Must ’a’ poured a pint o’ whiskey into me." "Boom passed you a quart bottle," replied Tex. Dave glanced at the inert form of Gerken as it was carried out into the hall. "Sorry I had to do it," he said, "but I had to get him first or go under. He oughtn’t to said I cheated him." "I say, that’s a bally lie, you know." Whitby’s drawling voice electrified the company. Those behind him hastily changed their positions. Dave, with a curse, reached again for his gun—it lay on the floor against the wall, where it had fallen. "Drop it, Dave," came Slick’s grating command. "Think I got nothin’ to do but clean up after you? Which yo ’re too hot to stay indoors. Go outside and cool off." "You tell me to git out?" exclaimed Dave, incredulously. "That’s what," was Slick’s dogged reply. "The Britisher wants to speak his piece an’ all interruptions is barred entirely. An’ don’t let Sandy see you for a month." Dave walked over and picked up his gun. "To h—l with Sandy," he cursed. The door slammed open and he was gone. Slick slid his weapon back onto the shelf and proceeded to admonish Whitby. "See here, Brit, don’t you never call a man a liar ’less yo ’re sure you can shoot first." "But dash it all! the man is a liar, you know. The German chap said ’you d—n scoundrel! Traitor to my master, eh!’ There ’s nothing in that about cheating, is there?" "Well, mebbe not," agreed Slick, "but comparisons is odorous, you don’t want to forget that. Which we ’ll drink to the memory of th’ dead departed. What ’ll it be, boys?" CHAPTER VII THE FRENCH ROSE