face and almost his whole head swollen and spongy red, his eyes almost closed, his lips immense. Not possibly could he ever forget it; as Gregg moved now and spoke to him, he jerked and quivered. Gregg himself was almost finished from his own terrible effort; he felt sick and his swollen, bleeding hands ached torturously. But he had won; and that meant more than the mere knowledge that from this savage encounter he had emerged with Russell at his mercy; he was sure now that, as he had dreamed and had planned, Russell could never completely recover from this beating. Physically, he would recuperate, of course; within a week he would be strong as ever; but Gregg believed he had cut through the mere physical into the morale and had "got Russell's nerve"; Russell would never be the same man again. One who has been utterly beaten, never can "come back," fighting men say.
So Gregg let Russell lie a while and look up at him and wonder what was to happen next, and then, as he quivered and shrank again when Gregg moved, Gregg said loudly and slowly and distinctly:
"You know why you got that; if ever you show up in Chicago again or open your mouth about Charles Hale, you'll run right into the same, only more of it—the same, you understand; just exactly the same but more. I'll prop you up to keep hitting you next time; prop you up and bring you to and prop you up again. By God, I feel like it now, you"
At that Russell screamed, "No!" and, not daring to move for fear of drawing the blows on his swollen head, he lay just quivering in stark, man's hysterics; and so Gregg believed he had "got" Russell.
It was over and done; and Gregg turned away and stood at the edge of the door, gazing out over the
