"Well, now do it to me. Here 's the place."
The arm he bared was black brown, full and muscular. Ford took the syringe and pinched the smooth warm skin.
"In with it," urged the Kafir. "Don't be afraid, man. Now press the plunger down with your forefinger. See? Go on, can't you? You mustn't mess the business upstairs. Do it again."
"That 's enough," said Ford.
Drops of blood issued from the puncture as he withdrew the needle, and he shivered involuntarily. It had been horrible to press the point home into that smooth and rounded arm; his own had not bled.
"Mind now," warned the Kafir. "You must run it well in. And now about the drug."
He was minute in his instructions and careful to avoid technical phrases and terms of art. He took the syringe and cleaned and charged and gave it to Ford.
"Don't funk it," was his final injunction. "This is nothing. There may be worse for you to do yet."
"I won't funk it," promised Ford. "But—" he appealed to the Kafir with a shrug of deprecation—"but isn't it a crazy business?"
It was like a swiftly-changing dream to him. The hot and dirty room, with the Kafir busy and thoughtful, the malevolent trooper and his revolver, the sprawl of the doctor and his slumberous calm and Mrs. Jakes groping through the minutes for a cue to salvation, were unconvincing even when his eyes dwelt on them. They had not the savor of reality. Six paces away was the hall, severe and grand, with its open door making it a neighbor of the darkness and the stars. Then came the vacant stairs and the long lifeless corridors running between the closed doors of rooms, and the light leaking out from under the door of Margaret's chamber. Through such a variety one moves in dreams, where things have lost or changed their values and nothing is solid or immediate, and death is not troublous nor life significant.