ToC Mr. "Our talking will not bother him. “Leave them!” He yelled. 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. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair. “Let me see,” she said to herself, trying to control a slight sinking of the heart, “I am going to take a room in a lodging-house because that is cheaper.
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