"I lost a very valuable one some time ago. 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. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. " And thus their domesticity at McClintock's began—with the tubbing of a stray yellow dog. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running.
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