“I’m not going to stand this any longer. You’ve got all my money, and I must have another drink, and I’ll have it, or I’ll kill you.”
A brief scuffle ensues, which, however, lasts only half a minute. The man falls, crying:
“You’ve killed me. I wish to God there was a witness—but it’s too late. I’m a dead man, curse you.”
Then he fell heavily to the floor.
“You brought it on yourself,” said the saloon-keeper. “You forced me to kill you.”
At this moment Comston hastily entered the saloon, and without looking around, cried:
“For God’s sake give me a drink! I haven’t a cent. Take my clothes—anything—I’ll die if I can’t get a dram.”
An idea seemed to strike the saloon-keeper, whose agitation Comston had not observed, for he said:
“Well, here, drink.”
“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Comston, clutching the glass, and draining it to the very dregs.