From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small phial, from which he drew the cork.
"Seems to me it's up to us to do the trick," he remarked languidly.
"Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy." The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, and coming round behind Pritchard's chair, suddenly bent the man's head backward.
Crease advanced, phial in hand.

Then all Hell seemed to be let loose in Tavernake.

He stepped back in his place and marked the extent of that wooden partition.

Then, setting his teeth, he sprang at it, throwing the great weight of his massive shoulder against the framework door.
Scratched and bleeding, but still upon his feet, he burst into the room, with the noise of bricks falling behind,--an apparition so unexpected that the little company gathered there seemed turned into some waxwork group from the Chamber of Horrors--motionless, without even the power of movement.
Tavernake, in those few moments, was like a giant among a company of degenerates.

He was strong, his muscles were like whipcord, and his condition was perfect.