The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Wild. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. "Iss, Massa.
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