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 opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. I have squeezed three kids into it afore now. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor.
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