"
"Put it away," Lemuel Doret repeated. He was more than ever catlike,
alert, bent slightly forward with tense fingers.
Bowman was unperturbed. "I told you about this flash stuff," he
observed. "Nobody's forcing money on you. Get the bend out of you and
give me a shave. That'll start you on the pills."
Lemuel Doret mechanically followed him into the rude barber shop; he
was fascinated by the idea of laying the razor across Bowman's throat.
The latter extended himself in the chair and Doret slowly, thoroughly,
covered his lower face with lather, through which the blade drew with a
clean smooth rip. A fever burned in the standing man's brain, he fought
constantly against a stiffening of his employed fingers--a swift turn,
a cutting twist. Subconsciously he called noiselessly upon the God that
had sustained him and, divided between apprehension and the increasing
lust to kill, his lips held the form in which they had pronounced that
impressive name. He had the sensation of battling against a terrific
wind, a remorseless force beating him to submission. His body ached
from the violence of the struggle to keep his hand steadily, evenly,
busied, following in a delicate sweep the cords of June Bowman's neck,
the jugulars.
The other looked up at him and grinned confidently. "Little children,"
he said, "love one another."
Lemuel stopped, the razor suspended in air; there was a din in his
ears, his vision blurred, his grip tightened on the bone handle.
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