"That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. 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. Mrs. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Doctors constantly admonished and offered weak consolation that most would have been hurt much worse from the type of fall he took. "Where are you going?" cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him.
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