He clutched it, and as his hand slipped along trying to find a
more secure hold he touched the cold iron of a long-handled pan
hanging there.
With a snarl he snatched it down, raised it over his head, and
brought it down upon his wife's back. Her hands opened spasmodically
and fell flat at her sides. Her body rolled over, limp and broken.
And a low whimper came from her bleeding lips.
Satisfied, Mart paused to regain his breath. He had no way of
knowing how long this unequal fight had been going on.
But he was free. The way of escape was open. He laid his hand on the
door.
There were voices. He cowered, cast hunted glances at the bloody
figure on the floor, bit his knuckles in a frenzy.
As he looked, the eyes opened in his wife's swollen face, eyes aglow
with triumph. "You'll swing for it, Mart!" she whispered faintly.
"And the money's on the table! Tobey's saved!"
Rough hands were on the door. A flutter of breath like a sigh of
relief crossed her lips and her lids dropped as the door burst open
to a tide of men.
The big yellow butterfly swung low on his golden wings and came to
rest on her narrow, sunken breast.
NO FLOWERS
BY GORDON ARTHUR SMITH
From _Harper's Monthly Magazine_
Steve Dempsey was a conspicuously ingenious chief machinist's
mate--one of the most ingenious in the Naval Aviation Forces,
Foreign Service, and he was ingenious not only with his hands, but
with his tongue.
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