"All right! All right! Only, for God's sakes, Jas, don't get out of bed, don't get crazy enough to shoot that thing. I'll get it. Wait, Jastrow; it's all right, you're all right. I'll get it. See, Teenie's going. Wait—wait—Teenie's going—"
She edged out and she edged in, hysteria audible in her breathing.
"Jas honey, won't you please—"
"Gimme, was what I said—gimme and quick!"
Her arm under his head, the glass tilted high against his teeth, he drank deeply, gratefully, breathing out finally and lying back against his pillow, his right hand uncurling of its clutch.
She lifted the short-snouted, wide-barreled, and steely object off the bed-edge gingerly, tremblingly.
"More like it," he said, running his tongue around his mouth; "more like it."
"Jas—Jas, what have you done?"
"Great stuff! Great stuff!" He kept repeating.
"If—if you wasn't so sick, honey—I don't know what I'd do after such a terrible thing like this—you acting like this—so terrible—God! I—I'm all trembling."