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. “I shan’t eat him. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance.
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