ue on hand. "But that ain't the point. When I ask a
man to drink he drinks. See? You ain't deef, are you? Then drink,
you rabbit!"

Beaudry, his heart beating like a triphammer, told himself that he was
not going to drink that they could not make him--that he would die
first. But before he knew it the flask was in his trembling fingers.
Apparently, without the consent of his flaccid will, the muscles had
responded to the impulse of obedience to the spur of fear. Even while
his brain drummed the refrain, "I won't drink--I won't--I won't," the
bottle was rising to his lips.

He turned a ghastly grin on his tormentors. It was meant to propitiate
them, to save the last scrap of his self-respect by the assumption that
they were all good fellows together. Feebly it suggested that after
all a joke is a joke.

From the uptilted flask the whiskey poured into his mouth. He
swallowed, and the fiery liquid scorched his throat. Before he could
hand the liquor back to its owner, the ex-convict broke into a curse.

"Drink, you pink-ear. Don't play 'possum with me," he roared. Roy
drank. Swallow after swallow of the stuff burned its way into his
stomach. He stopped at last, sputtering and coughing.

"M--much obliged. I'll be going now," he stammered.

"Not quite yet, Mr. R. C. Street-Beaudry," demurred Charlton suavely.
"Stay and play with us awhile, now you're here. No telling when we'll
meet again." He climbed on the shoe-shining chair that stood in the
entry. "I reckon I'll have my boots shined up. Go to it, Mr.
Beaudry-Street."

With a whoop of malice the rest of them fell in with the suggestion.
To make this young fellow black their boots in turn was the most
humiliating thing they could think of at the moment. They pushed Roy
toward the stand and put a brush into his hand. He stood still,
hesitating.

"Git down on yore knees and hop to it," ordered Charlton. "Give him
room, boys."

Again Beaudry swore to himself that he would not do it. He had an
impulse to smash that sneering, cruel face, but it was physically
impossible for him to lift a hand to strike. Though he was trembling
violently, he had no intention of yielding. Yet the hinges of his
knees bent automatically. He found himself reaching for the blacking
just as if his will were paralyzed.

Perhaps it was the liquor rushing to his head when he stooped. Perhaps
it was the madness of a terror-stricken rat driven into a corner. His
f