“Then you won’t get any promise from me; that’s all.�
“Not even with this?� he raised the gun threateningly.
“No, not even with that; not with a dozen of them,� was the decided reply.
“All right. Let’s see it. We’ll talk over the particulars afterward.�
Lynne bent forward and passed the paper to him; but as Red Mike took it in his hand, he did not remove his eyes from the face of Lynne; and, after a moment, he exclaimed:
“Say, Lynne, you’d better get back into that bed. You look—well, you look all in. You’re a heap sicker than I thought you were.â€�
“The exertion—of getting up—and writing—this—was a little—too much—for me—I suppose,â€� replied Lynne, staggering to his feet and groping out with his hands as one does who is walking in the dark and is fearful of colliding with some obstacle.
He reeled a little where he stood, and then essayed to move toward the bed, while Mike, bending toward him, watched every move as if he did not know whether to assist the sick man or not.
Lynne took a tottering step toward the bed; then another one; he raised his right hand to his forehead and pressed it there; he staggered again; and then, just as Red Mike started to rise from his chair, probably to lend assistance, Lynne pitched forward full upon him, overturning chair and man together at the same instant, and they went to the floor together, for despite the sickness that Lynne had undergone he was still a heavy man.
The reader has suspected, of course, that Lynne was counterfeiting this attack of faintness; that he was dissembling. Red Mike did not suspect it, however; it was too well done—and it was the only method that Lynne had been able to think of by which there was the slightest possibility of his gaining the upper hand.