Free The Cook by Harry Kressing Page B

table, mixing with his blood, while in the hushed silence he pulled with all his might at the knife handle.
    And then there was a sound: the sound of blood dripping on the floor—
    Silently Brogg continued to tug at the knife handle. The knuckles of his right hand turned white with the strain. Any prizing movement would slice or tear the flesh further. He had to pull the knife straight up—
    And then there was another sound: Brogg had begun to whimper.
    Tears started from his eyes, and the fingers of his right hand slowly, jerkily, like a robot’s, let go of the knife handle.
    “I can’t get it out!” he cried, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed on the knife handle. “I can’t get it out—”
    Slowly he raised his frightened eyes to the circle of faces. His gaze passed from face to face, including Conrad’s, whom he did not seem to distinguish from the other witnesses. “I can’t get it out,” he repeated. A note of hysteria crept into his voice.
    He looked back at the knife handle—and at the confluence of the three rivulets at the edge of the table.
    The sound of his dripping blood had changed: it was no longer dripping onto a hard floor; it was dripping into a pool . . .
    “And I’m bleeding—” he whimpered, looking up at the faces again. “I’m bleeding—”

17
    “Let someone else try,” Conrad suggested coldly. “Perhaps they’re stronger than you are, Brogg.”
    “Yes—let someone else try,” Brogg agreed quickly, hope suddenly flashing in his eyes.
    “Who wants to try . . . why don’t you try?” Conrad indicated a fairly strong-looking man, who had been at the bar when Conrad came in.
    “Yes, Ed, you try, you try . . .” Brogg exclaimed, almost happy through his tears—rather like a dog licking the hand that frees it from the trap.
    “Try it!” Conrad demanded harshly when Ed seemed to hold back.
    The man stepped forward and warily grasped the knife handle.
    “Careful, Ed, careful . . . pull straight up—straight up—” Brogg directed in a weak voice, his tear-stained face now white and dripping with sweat. “Don’t move it to the side . . . you’ll cut me—you’ll cut me if you move it to the side, Ed—”
    But Ed muttered that he couldn’t move it at all, and backed away from the table.
    “Who else wants to try?”
    Someone suggested that Curly try.
    “Yes—you try, Curly,” Brogg said eagerly.
    Curly was the fat tavern-keeper. But as he grabbed the knife handle a wave of nausea suddenly swept over him, and he quickly left the table.
    “Who’s next?”
    Someone—a little man—stepped forward. “I have small hands,” he mumbled by way of an excuse. He grabbed the handle with both hands and tugged—
    “Next?” Conrad called as the little man shook his head and backed off.
    No one came forward.
    “How about you?” Conrad asked a stocky, expressionless workman.
    The man declined with a shrug. “Brogg’s the strongest one in here. If he can’t pull it out, no one can.”
    Brogg, listening intently, started to smile in silly agreement, but then suddenly bethought himself: “Sam, I’m left-handed . . . I’m left-handed. That’s why I can’t do it. You try . . . you try, Sam. You’re strong—after me you’re the strongest . . .” Hope again shone in the pinioned man’s eyes.
    “If you say so, Brogg, I’ll try.”
    Sam stepped forward; he spat in his hands and rubbed them together. He planted his feet solidly. A look of determination came in his eyes, just as if he were essaying a feat of strength for a carnival prize.
    He pulled with all his might. After several seconds he quit pulling and tried to jerk it out. He tried several hard tugs before he gave up. “No use,” he muttered. “It can’t be budged.”
    Brogg, who had been watching Sam’s efforts with great hope, broke down completely at these words. “Please, please—someone pull it out . . . someone pull it out,” he blubbered in a piteous voice. “Please—I’m bleeding—and it