"My hands for you."
For the first time Deede Dawson seemed to fear, for, indeed, there
was that in Rupert Dunsmore's eyes to rouse fear in any man. With
a sudden swift spring, Rupert leaped forward and Deede Dawson, not
daring to abide that onslaught, turned and ran, screaming shrilly.
During the space of one brief moment, a dreadful and appalling
moment, there was a wild strange hunting up and down the narrow
space of that upper attic, cumbered with lumber and old, disused
furniture.
Round and round Deede Dawson fled, screaming still in a high shrill
way, like some wild thing in pain, and hard upon him followed Rupert,
nor had they gone a second time about that room before Rupert had
Deede Dawson in a fast embrace, his arms about the other's middle.
One last great cry Deede Dawson gave when Rupert seized him, and
then was silent as Rupert lifted him and swung him high at arm's
length.
As a child in play sports with its doll, so Rupert swung Deede
Dawson twice about his head, round and round and then loosed him
so that he went hurling through the air with awful force, like a
stone shot from a catapult, clean through the window through which
Rupert had the moment before tossed his pistol with but little
more apparent effort.
Right through the window, bearing panes and sash with him, Deede
Dawson flew with the impetus of that great throw and out beyond
and down, turning over and over the while, down through the empty
air to fall and be shattered like a piece of worthless crockery
on the stone threshold of the outhouse door.
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