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Capes scored back with an uncompromising vigor that was his way of complimenting her intelligence. 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’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. He has often told me that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap a fortune.
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