You ain't got no chance, nohow. I told you many times what you'd get if
you did me dirt."

"But you did me dirt, too," Jim articulated with an effort.

Matt was drinking the second cupful, and did not answer. The sweat had got
into Jim's eyes, and he could scarcely see his way to the table, where he
got a cup for himself. But Matt was mixing a third cupful, and, as before,
thrust him away.

"I told you to wait till I was done," Matt growled. "Get outa my way."

And Jim supported his twitching body by holding on to the sink, the while
he yearned toward the yellowish concoction that stood for life. It was by
sheer will that he stood and clung to the sink. His flesh strove to double
him up and bring him to the floor. Matt drank the third cupful, and with
difficulty managed to get to a chair and sit down. His first paroxysm was
passing. The spasms that afflicted him were dying away. This good effect
he ascribed to the mustard and water. He was safe, at any rate. He wiped
the sweat from his face, and, in the interval of calm, found room for
curiosity. He looked at his partner.

A spasm had shaken the mustard can out of Jim's hands, and the contents
were spilled upon the floor. He stooped to scoop some of the mustard into
the cup, and the succeeding spasm doubled him upon the floor. Matt smiled.

"Stay with it," he encouraged. "It's the stuff all right. It's fixed me
up."

Jim heard him and turned toward him a stricken face, twisted with suffering