I had always been able to account for Jim when it came to fisticuffs, but never at close quarters. This time, his attack was violent as it was unexpected. I did not have the ghost of a chance. I staggered back against the furnace wall, still in his devilish clutch. Not a gasp of air entered or left my body from the moment he clutched me. He shook me as a terrier does a rat. Soon my strength began to go; my eyes bulged; my head felt as if it were bursting; dancing lights and awful darknesses flashed and loomed alternately before and around me. Then the lights became scarcer and the darknesses longer and more intense. As the last glimmer of consciousness was leaving me, when black gloom had won and there was no more light, I felt a sudden release, painful and almost unwelcome to the oblivion to which I had been hurling. The lights came flashing back to me again and out of the whirling chaos I began to grasp the tangible once more. As I leaned against the side of the furnace, pulling at my throat where those terrible fingers had been,--gasping,--gasping,--for glorious life-giving, life-sustaining air, I gradually began to see as through a haze. Before long, I was almost myself again. Jim was standing a few paces away, his chest heaving, his shaggy head bent and his great hands clenched against his thighs. I gazed at him, and as I gazed something wet glistened in his eyes, rolled down his cheeks and splashed on the back of his hand, where it dried up as if it had fallen on a red-hot plate. I took an unsteady step toward him and held out my hand. "Jim," I murmured, "my poor old Jim!" His head remained lowered. "Strike me," he groaned huskily. "For God's sake strike me, for the coward I am!" "I want your hand, Jim," I answered. "Tell me what is wrong? What is all this about?" At last he looked into my eyes. I could see a hundred conflicting emotions working in his expressive face. "You would be friends after what I have done?" he asked. "I want your hand, Jim," I said again. In a moment, both his were clasped over mine, in his vicelike grip. "George,--George!" he cried. "We've always been friends,--chums. I have always known you were not like the rest of them." He drew his forearm across his brow. "I am not myself, George. You'll forgive me for what I did, won't you?" "Man, Jim,--there is nothing done that requires forgiving;--only, you have the devil's own grip. I don't suppose I shall be able to swallow decently for a week. "But you are in trouble: what is it, Jim? Tell me; maybe I can help." "Ay,--it's trouble enough,--God forbid. It's Peggy, George,--my dear little sister, Peggy, that has neither mother nor father to guide her;--only me, and I'm a blind fool. Oh!--I can't speak about it. Come over with me and see for yourself."