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. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some precious sport. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force.
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