George Allan England

“ His staring eyes fixed on the phial with pitiable craving. No martyr on the rack longs for release so passionately as an addict for his morphine. Wingate's claw-like hands trembled toward the phial.
“l pay!” he gasped. “This infernal toothache—anything—can't stand it! What price?”
“There, that's better!” said Jaccard. “I kind of thought you'd meet my terms. A man with a recurrent—toothache like yours, will give anything to get rid of it. Won't he, now?”
“For God's sake, man, stop talking!” The millionaire's voice rose to a reedy falsetto of agony. “Stop talking, and give it to me!” ”

“ Impotently the millionaire's weak fists battered that solid bulk. They did no more than dash the phial from Jaccard's hand. It fell to the cabin floor, rolled against one of the lockers, and stopped there. With an insensate, wild rage, Wingate tried to land some telling blow. Tortured nerves and outraged mind drove him on to make of himself a degrading, pitiful spectacle—how different from what he had been in those other, far-away days of splendid athletic achievement! ”

“ The millionaire stared with horrified realization. For a moment he stood there, racked and shaking, tortured with the gnawing, intolerable agony of abstinence from his indispensable drug. Then, all at once, he laughed gratingly, horribly. ”