On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. 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. She made me over. “Lucy! You found me! I was just about to sleep some of those rum and Cokes off like the pig I am. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. ’ ‘But two letters,’ put in the woman. ’ He moved to his friend and grasped his hand in a gesture as deliberately dramatic as the storytelling of mademoiselle.
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