A murmur of protest arose from
the others.
"Thomas!" A woman's voice was calling from the other side of the low
canvas partition.
"That's my wife," growled Braddock. "I suppose she'll be beggin' for
you, too. What do you want?" The question was roared through the
canvas.
"Come here, please. I must speak with you."
"Change your clothes, boy," he said, after a moment of indecision.
"See that he don't get away, you fellows. If he gives you the slip,
I'll have blood, and don't you forget it."
The man had been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot and unsteady. His
face was bloated from the effects of long and continued use of
alcohol. Once on a time he had been a dashing, boldly handsome fellow;
there could be no doubt of that; the sort of youth that any romantic
girl might have fallen in love with. He was tall and straight and
powerful, despite the evidences of dissipation that his face
presented. A wonderfully vital constitution had protected his body
from the ravages of self-indulgence; the constitution of a great,
splendid human animal, in whom not the faintest sign of a once
attractive personality remained.
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