“I've already taken oath,” Burgess said. “I think your daughter may need somebody's care before anything happens if you keep up this gait.”
They hurried on through the rain until they had left the board walk and the town lights, and were staggering along the cinder-made path, when Burgess halted.
“Saxon, who's the man, or two men, you want to save? I believe you are drunk.”
Bond Saxon grasped his arm, and said hoarsely:
“Don't shriek here. We are in danger, now. It's not two men. It's a man and a woman, maybe. It's Dean Funnybone. Come on!”
CHAPTER X. THE THIEF IN THE MOUTH
O, thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no,
name to be known by, let us call thee, devil! —SHAKESPEARE
WHEN Lloyd Fenneben could think again, the waters had receded, the rock ledge had turned to a pillow under his head, the river bank was a straight white hospital wall, sunlight and sweet air for the darkness and the rain, and Norrie Wream was beside him instead of the brutal stranger. His heavy black hair was shorn away and his head was bound with much soft cotton stuffs. His left arm was full of prickles, as if the blood had just resumed circulation.
“And meantime?” he said, looking up at Elinor.