Matt smiled and continued to watch him. In the paroxysm that followed, Jim did not become unconscious. His muscles tensed and twitched and knotted, hurting him and crushing him in their savage grip. And in the midst of it all, it came to him that Matt was acting queerly. He was traveling the same road. The smile had gone from his face, and there was on it an intense expression, as if he were listening to some inner tale of himself and trying to divine the message. Matt got up and walked across the room and back again, then sat down.
"You did this, Jim," he said quietly.
"But I didn't think you'd try to fix me," Jim answered reproachfully.
"Oh, I fixed you all right," Matt said, with teeth close together and shivering body. "What did you give me?"
"Strychnine."
"Same as I gave you," Matt volunteered. "It's some mess, ain't it!"
"You're lyin', Matt," Jim pleaded. "You ain't doped me, have you?"
"I sure did, Jim; an' I didn't overdose you, neither. I cooked it in as neat as you please in your half the porterhouse.—Hold on! Where're you goin'?"
Jim had made a dash for the door, and was throwing back the bolts. Matt sprang in between and shoved him away.
"Drug store," Jim panted. "Drug store."