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. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. "Let us fly from this frightful place. Eh bien, you have now the opportunity.
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