strangling in the chaos and turmoil of the waters, as it were, and,
rising, was hurled back again.

White as death itself was Madison's face; and at times his fingers with
a twitching movement curled into clenched fists, at times his open palms
sought his temples in a queer wriggling way and pressed upon them.
Doubt, anger, fear, a rage unhallowed--in cycles--buffeted him until
his brain reeled, and he was as a man distraught.

It began at the beginning, that cycle, and dragged him along--and left
him like one swooning, tottering, upon the edge of a precipice. And then
it began over again.

And it began always with a picture of the Roost that night--the vicious,
unkempt, ragged figure of the Flopper--the sickly, thin, greedy face of
Pale Face Harry, the drug fiend, winching a little as he plunged the
needle into his flesh--the easy, unprincipled gaiety and eagerness of
Helena for the new path of crime--crime--crime--the Roost exuded
crime--filth--immorality--typified them, framed them well as they had
sat there, the four of them, while that bruised-nosed bouncer had
brought them drink on his rattling tin tray. And then his own
self-satisfied, smug, complacent egotism at his own cleverness, his
unbounded confidence in his own ability to pull off the game, and--

Well, he had pulled it off--he'd won it--won it--won it--everybody had
fallen for it--the boobs had been plentiful--the harvest rich. What was
the matter with him! He'd won--was winning every time the clock ticked.
Somebody back there was probably throwing good hard coin at him this
minute--the damned fool! Madison threw back his head to laugh in
derision, for there was mocking, contemptuous laughter in his soul--but