"I've got the truth stripped down to running facts, carrying no trimmings, and I'm demonstrating it to everybody I meet," he imparted dryly. "And I mean to keep on. I know what you want, all right, and I ain't intending to do it. Let him stand for what is coming to him."
Gerard lifted his cigarette, seeking the narcotic smoke. His superb vitality and undrained youth had turned upon him like traitorous servants upon a fallen master, denying him surcease in unconsciousness and holding him as a sensitive instrument for pain to run its gamut upon.
"Why?" he queried.
"Because I want to see him get his. You don't? I do. I guess my say goes, this time. I ain't enjoying being sore wherever I ain't worse, but I'd go out and take another smash like we had to-day to see him wearing zebra clothes in a jail. Missing that, I'll make that pink millionaire palace red-hot and get him ruled off every race course in the country."
"Rupert——"
The mechanician's gesture cut off protest.
"There ain't any use! I mean it."
"You liked Corrie——"
"I ain't noticing it, now. When you were behind the steering-wheel, your say so was what happened—if you'd said to light the gasoline tank, I'd have struck a match. That's business. This ain't. Rose stands for what he did, for I'm free to put it through."
"Very true; I am helpless," Gerard acquiesced, his white lips compressed, and averted his head on the pillow.