A NEWMARKET STORY. 15 



itself on to the pavement, and crawls slowly down the street. 

 Jess knows that it is ready again to lick the foot that struck 

 it. Three o'clock. Another cab, which moves slowly, almost 

 cautiously. Jess's heart stands still for a moment. The vehicle 

 stops a few yards below the baker's shop ; two men get out, car- 

 rying a small burden between them. They admit themselves 

 noiselessly with a latch-key to the private door of the house in 

 which Jess sits. The girl has struck a light quickly, and con- 

 fronts the men, candle in hand, on the staircase as they enter. 



* Dead drunk. Miss Dallas ; you knows his ways,' says one of 

 the men who carries Joe, in a sort of hoarse aside. 



He was a bold man to address Jess thus in her present 

 mood. 



' Curse you ! Put him down instantly, and leave the house. 

 I've a reckoning to settle with you another time ; Jess Dallas 

 never forgets.' 



The men slunk away like whipped hounds, for there was 

 something almost terrifying in the girl's aspect and voice. 



There at the foot of the stairs lay the poor little jockey in 

 the unconsciousness of complete intoxication, neither moving 

 nor comprehending, but only breathing stertorously. Alone, 

 unaided, step by step, Jess as gently as' she could, dragged him 

 up the short staircase. Holding him from above by the arms, 

 and passing backwards and upwards, she succeeded, after many 

 pauses, in reaching the landing. Panting, exhausted, she lifted 

 him into the room and laid him on the mattress, which she 

 dragged from the bed to the floor ; then, without a glance at 

 the pitiable figure, she locked the door from the outside, and 

 carried the key to her own room. 



When she came again into the room, soon after ten in the 

 morning, it was with difficulty that she roused him. She held a 

 tumbler of not very clear soda-water in her hand. 



' Drink this, Joe.' 



Flushed, dazed, and thankful for anything to cool his parched 

 lips, Joe, without demur, drank the mixture to the dregs. She 

 watched him sink back like a tired child to his pillows, and on 

 her face there was an expression of mingled grief and high 

 resolve, which for once almost effaced its resemblance to the 

 purposeless, inexpressive features she looked down on. She 

 murmured, touching his powerless hand with her own, 



' Poor Joe ! poor Jess !' 



Then Jess locked the door once more, taking the key with her. 



