him wherever he went. He had in no wise improved his situation by fleeing from Hollywood. On the whole, it was distinctly possible that he was worse off now than he had been under the roof-tree of Imperia Starling.
So, perturbed and nerve-shattered, he tossed and turned in his narrow bed, throwing the covers this way and that, arranging and re-arranging his pillow, twisting his toes, stretching, lying now on one side and now on the other, and counting sheep jumping over a fence until the woolly quadrupeds began to bear the aspect of a series of Imperia Starlings after him in frantic pursuit. At last the belated dawn eased some of his fears and excessive fatigue mercifully made it possible for him to sleep for an hour.
At eight o'clock the sheriff himself came into the room with Ambrose's breakfast on a tray, a rasher of bacon and eggs, and a pot of strong coffee.
Made by my own cook, Ed Randolph explained, and I wouldn't allow no one else to bring it to you. Any friend of Jack Story's a friend o' mine till he's hanged.
Ambrose started at the last word. He was bending over a washbowl with his face in the cooling water. As he looked up the cracked mirror informed him that his eyes were bloodshot.
