off his chump, an'—fer God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"
A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with Thornton—eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last—gone the limit.
"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"—was that his own voice speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it—but he was perfectly calm nevertheless.
"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I—I ain't no squealer, dat's why."
Madison's arm fell away—to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.
"Mabbe," suggested the Flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident."
Madison made no answer.
The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at Madison's face.
"Wot—wot'll I do wid de Patriarch?" he stammered out miserably.
And then Madison smiled at him—not happily, but eloquently.
"Swipe me!" mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "Dis love game's fierce—an' mabbe I don't know! 'Sposin' she'd been Mamie an' me the Doc—'sposin' it
