"Please don't move, Dottie," he said quietly.

He never hesitated, nor did he hurry and make a bungle of it.

"Allow me," he said.

And with one hand he caught her scarf and drew it tightly around her
shoulders so that the centipede could not fall inside her bodice.
With the other hand--the right--he reached into her hair, caught the
repulsive abomination as near as he was able by the nape of the
neck, and held it tightly between thumb and forefinger as he
withdrew it from her hair. It was as horrible and heroic a sight as
man could wish to see. It made my flesh crawl. The centipede,
seven inches of squirming legs, writhed and twisted and dashed
itself about his hand, the body twining around the fingers and the
legs digging into the skin and scratching as the beast endeavoured
to free itself. It bit him twice--I saw it--though he assured the
ladies that he was not harmed as he dropped it upon the walk and
stamped it into the gravel. But I saw him in the surgery five
minutes afterwards, with Doctor Goodhue scarifying the wounds and
injecting permanganate of potash. The next morning Kersdale's arm
was as big as a barrel, and it was three weeks before the swelling
went down.

All of which has nothing to do with my story, but which I could not
avoid giving in order to show that Jack Kersdale was anything but a
coward. It was the cleanest exhibition of grit I have ever seen.
He never turned a hair. The smile never left his lips. And he
dived with thumb and forefinger into Dottie Fairchild's hair as
gaily as if it had been a box of salted almonds. Yet that was the