Wild," implored the turnkeys. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. But remember my warning, and play the game!" Spurlock closed his eyes again. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. He might solve the riddle. In your heart you know quite well that all that you have said is useless. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually.
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