“I’m a blot,” he declared mournfully; “I ’m no
rood, Norry. I’m an—an excreeshence, an ex:ree-shence, tha ’s what I am.”
‘‘Something of the sort,” Norry agreed in disgust. ‘Here, let me take off your coat.”
“Leave my coat alone.” He pulled himself iway from Norry. “I’m no good. I’m an ex;ree-shence. I’m goin’ t’ commit suicide; tha’s ivhat I’m goin’ t’ do. Nobody ’ll care ’cept my ■nusher, and she would n’t either if she knew me. Dh, oh, I wish I did n’t use a shafety-razor. I ’ll tell you what to do, Norry.” He clung pleadingly to Norry’s arm and begged with passionate in¬ tensity. “You go over to Harry King’s room. He’s got a re-re—a pistol. You get it for me and I ’ll put it right here—” he touched his temple awkwardly—“and I ’ll—I ’ll blow my damn brains out. I’m a blot, Norry; I’m an ex-cree-shence.”
Norry shook him. “Shut up. You’ve got to go to bed. You ’re drunk.”
“I’m sick. I’m an ex-cree-shence.” The room was whizzing rapidly around Hugh, and he clung hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted him¬ self to be led into the bedroom and undressed, still loaning that he was an “ex-cree-shence.
The bed pitched. He lay on his right side, clutching the covers in terror. He turned over on his back. Still the bed swung up and down sickeningly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and
