"Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea. You can borrow any of my outfits anytime, you know. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. .
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