He cast one frantic glance toward the door and a still more frantic appeal centered on Ronicky Doone, but the face of the latter was as cold as stone.
"Then take your own glasses, boys," he said, striving to smile, as he picked up his own drink.
"You drink first, and you drink alone," declared Ronicky.

"Now!" The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a revolver.

The fat man tossed off the glass of whisky and then stood with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast and the upward glance of one who awaits a calamity.

Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg he turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor.

His eyes rolled, and his hand on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged.
"Open the window," he said.