cold-blooded treachery. The cup was still in his hand. Without a clear realization of what he did, without a thought as to consequences, he hurled it at the head going through the doorway.
The cup found its mark. Sam's hat flew upward, and the bag dropped from his hand. His knees sagged, his step stumbled. A moment he stood swaying; then he sprawled forward and lay on his face out in Washington Avenue in the rain.
