"These people are all in league with him," cried the latter. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. Care for a hundred up?” Ennison shook his head. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers.
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