George Allan England

“ Wingate made no answer, but lay panting, with the smolder of an immense hatred in his feverish eyes. Like tiny sentinels of fate the tablets lay there on the table.
“As if you could cure yourself of the habit, you poor, broken wreck of a man!” Jaccard mocked. “Why, the best sanitariums have failed, and the most skillful doctors. You're all gone. Your will power's gone—there's nothing left. Will power—pooh! You're a joke, Wingate—nothing but a joke, to reat men! ”

“ This collapsible bucket was now all that his jailers would allow him. The metal pitcher had been taken away, like all metal. There was not even a tin cup to drink from.
Wingate had to tilt the canvas bucket and drink from its edge, slopping water down his chest. He laughed savagely, drank deep, and laughed again. More scores to settle!
Like a trapped animal, he fell to pacing the floor, back and forth across the fiber tug. Hobbling, racked with pain, he took his exercise—a tortured soul in a hell of his own making. ”

“ My time will come yet!”
“Hop talk!” laughed Jaccard. “That's the way they all rave; but let me tell you this,” he added, in a sharper tone, as he glowered down at his victim. “You won't get any more chances to run amuck and kill yourself or try to hurt anybody. You nearly gave us the slip, four days ago—you and that damned snake. Zanelli made good as a guard, though. He got to it first, and winged it just in time.”
The victim bared teeth of hate at Jaccard, like a trapped wolf. ”