God help me. 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. "Oh!" she gasped. I tried it myself, Sir. I cannot explain beyond that. Every moment. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark.
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