The gun exploded five times, and five bullets ploughed their way into the Doc's body.
Not a cry, not a movement! The bland, pleased smile never left the sallow face. With his mouth to the pipestem, the Doc dreamed on.
In the street, Jackeen and Rice passed Lulu. As they brushed by her, Rice fell back a pace and whispered:
“He croaked th' Doc.”
Lulu gave a gulping cry and hurried on.
“Is that you, Lulu?” asked the Doc, his drug-uplifted soul untouched, untroubled by what had passed, and what would come. Still, he must have dimly known; for his next words, softly spoken, were: “I'm sorry about Mike's teeth! Cook me a pill, dear; I want one last good smoke.”
VII.—LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER
It was a perfect day for a funeral. The thin October air had in it a half-chill, like the cutting edge of the coming winter, still six weeks away. The leaves, crisp and brown from early frosts, seemed to rustle approval of the mournful completeness of things.