“Rats nothing!” jeered Step. “All you’ve got to do, Shark, is to—to visualize it—yes, that’s the scheme. Take a dose of your own medicine for keeping the brain clear, can’t you?”
“Bosh!” growled the Shark; and in high dudgeon turned his back on the company. It happened that, as a result of the movement, he faced Groche, upon whom unwittingly he trained his gaze, while he meditated darkly upon the extreme unreason of his clubmates.
Groche had been lying like a log on the floor, but now he stirred restlessly. He raised himself on an elbow. For a moment he tried, as he had tried once before, to stare down the unblinking Shark; and failed as completely as he had failed on the former occasion. He struggled to a sitting position. He raised an arm, as if to ward off the hypnotic influence of the steady eyes behind the big glasses. And he broke into speech, incoherent, savage, and terror-stricken.
Lon limped forward, but Sam was before him, catching Groche’s arm. At this the ruffian turned upon him.
“You—you, I’ll get ye, if I hang for it!” he shouted. “You’re at the bottom of it all! You lied about me, and you set that old bloodhound, Bates, on me!”
“But you’re mistaken; I didn’t,” Sam said earnestly.
“You done it, you done it!”
Sam glanced at Lon. “I guess you reasoned out the truth of it,” said he.
Groche swore viciously, tried to rise; groaned, and sank back to the floor.
“You lied about me, and threw that job o’ yourn on me!” he snarled. “I’ll get even with ye, I’ll get even with ye yet, if I die for’t!”