“I told you to wait till I was done,” Matt growled.  “Get outa my way.”

And Jim supported his twitching body by holding on to the sink, the while he yearned toward the yellowish concoction that stood for life.  It was by sheer will that he stood and clung to the sink.  His flesh strove to double him up and bring him to the floor.  Matt drank the third cupful, and with difficulty managed to get to a chair and sit down.  His first paroxysm was passing.  The spasms that afflicted him were dying away.  This good effect he ascribed to the mustard and water.  He was safe, at any rate.  He wiped the sweat from his face, and, in the interval of calm, found room for curiosity.  He looked at his partner.

A spasm had shaken the mustard can out of Jim’s hands, and the contents were spilled upon the floor.  He stooped to scoop some of the mustard into the cup, and the succeeding spasm doubled him up on the floor.  Matt smiled.

“Stay with it,” he encouraged.  “It’s the stuff all right.  It’s fixed me up.”

Jim heard him and turned toward him with a stricken face, twisted with suffering and pleading.  Spasm now followed spasm till he was in convulsions, rolling on the floor and yellowing his face and hair in the mustard.

Matt laughed hoarsely at the sight, but the laugh broke midway.  A tremor had run through his body.  A new paroxysm was beginning.  He arose and staggered across to the sink, where, with probing forefinger, he vainly strove to assist the action of the emetic.  In the end, he clung to the sink as Jim had clung, filled with the horror of going down to the floor.

The other’s paroxysm had passed, and he sat up, weak and fainting, too weak to rise, his forehead dripping, his lips flecked with a foam made yellow by the mustard in which he had rolled.  He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, and groans that were like whines came from his throat.

“What are you snifflin’ about!” Matt demanded out of his agony.  “All you got to do is die.  An’ when you die you’re dead.”

“I ... ain’t ... snifflin’ ... it’s ... the ... mustard ... stingin’ ... my ... eyes,” Jim panted with desperate slowness.

It was his last successful attempt at speech.  Thereafter he babbled incoherently, pawing the air with shaking arms till a fresh convulsion stretched him on the floor.

Matt struggled back to the chair, and, doubled up on it, with his arms clasped about his knees, he fought with his disintegrating flesh.  He came out of the convulsion cool and weak.  He looked to see how it went with the other, and saw him lying motionless.