So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. You know how stubborn they get. 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 slipped silently inside the door as he went inside a 12 putrid little bathroom to urinate. “I don’t know why. ” “Think not,” that young man remarked laconically.
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