Alarmed lest the poor wretch would attract attention, Cummings placed
his arm around him, and half-carrying, half-dragging him, bore him to
his room. Slipping the latch of the door, he turned up the gas.

Cook sank into a chair, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in
his hands. Every muscle was twitching, his eyes, staring stonily ahead,
were bloodshot and fevered. Horror was printed on his face, and his
fingers, curved like bird's claws, moved spasmodically over his head.

"They're after me, Jim, they're after me," he repeated, again and again.

Greatly disturbed by the sudden appearance of the wretched Cook,
Cummings hardly knew how to meet the emergency. If he kept Cook with
him, the tremens would come on, and in the delirium of the frenzy Cook
would probably say something which would betray Cummings. On the other
hand, if he left the house to place Cook in some safe quarters, he
courted detection.

He was in a tight box, and this, with the events which had just occurred
and his close call of the week previous, made him somewhat nervous. As
he looked at the miserable wretch before him he saw that he wore the
high-heeled boots and spurs of the cowboys, who make Kansas City a
rendezvous. In an instant his course was plain and he proceeded to
execute it.

Handing Cook a large glass full of brandy, he bade him drink it. The
half-crazed man needed no urging, but clutching the glass he drank it
down greedily. Its effect was almost instantaneous. His face lost the
horrible expression, his fingers straightened out, and the trembling
ceased. Cummings watched him closely, and knowing that the liquor would