Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. 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. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. 1. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence.
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