And finally this false friend disclosed his true hostile character in
some strikingly painful manner.
For instance, the man would make Dale take off his boots for him in
some public place. They were together in a place like the lounge of
some grand music-hall; the electric light shone brilliantly, a band
played at a distance, the gaily dressed crowd gathered round
them--young London swells with white waistcoats, pretty painted women,
old men and young girls, and all of them watching, all contemptuously
amused, all grinning because they understood that, though so big and
strong, he was at heart a pitiful sort of poltroon, and that his
companion was showing him up publicly. "Yes, you shall take my boots
off for me. That's all you're fit for." And in spite of his anguish of
resentment, Dale dared not refuse. The man had moved to a divan, he
reclined upon his back, lifted his feet; and Dale, pretending to laugh
it off as a bit of fun, took him by the heels.
Then he uttered a terrified cry--because he saw it was Barradine,
dead, battered, with glassy staring eyes. All the people rushed away
screaming, the lights went out, the music ceased: Dale was alone, at
dusk, in a rocky wilderness, still dragging the dead man by the heels.
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