"You drink first, and you drink alone," declared Ronicky. "Now!"

The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a
revolver. The fat man tossed off the glass of whisky and then stood
with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast and the upward glance of
one who awaits a calamity. Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg he
turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor. His eyes rolled, and his hand
on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged.

"Open the window," he said. "The air--there ain't no air. I'm
choking--and--"

"Get him some water," cried Bill Gregg, "while I open the window."

"Stay where you are, Bill."

"But he looks like he's dying!"

"Then he's killed himself."

"Gents," began the fat man feebly and made a short step toward them.
The step was uncompleted. In the middle of it he wavered, put out his
arms and slumped upon his side on the floor.

Bill Gregg cried out softly in astonishment and horror, but Ronicky
Doone knelt calmly beside the fallen bulk and felt the beating of his
heart.

"He ain't dead," he said quietly, "but he'll be tolerably sick for a