He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. 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. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment.
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