wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:
“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”
Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.
“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o———”
“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o———”
“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.
“r—” said the policeman, “o———”
“g———”
“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?”
“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”
