Maybe we lose
and--and maybe--well, I never did like to be beaten! Nor do I say that
such an argument will have any weight with you, but it's a chance to be
on the dead level, for once. What do you say? Do we switch?"
Then Allison remembered the expression which had flitted over
Wickersham's face when Stephen O'Mara coolly appropriated Barbara. But
that expression had been a totally gentle thing beside the pale fury
which now slowly overspread his features. Wickersham twisted the
cigarette to fragments--flung them from him, and the very gesture was
vicious.
"Switch," he snarled. And he leaned forward, face bloodless, and beat
upon a chair arm. "Switch now!" He laughed shrilly. "Why, I'm going
to beat that damned woods-rat in his matinee-idol costume so bad
between now and next May that he'll be walking the roads for his next
job. Switch? I'm going to brand him as the worst incompetent that
ever dragged two poor fools down into pauperism. I'll see him broke.
I'll wipe that damned smooth smile from his lips, by God, if I have
to----"
Wickersham gasped; he came to his feet panting all in an instant with
the rage that set his dry lips writhing. But at that point he, too,
remembered himself. He swallowed and faced Allison, and the latter,
sitting pop-eyed before his outbreak, gaped now at the change that came
back over that twisted face.
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