Och! many a mug o' bubb have I drained wi' the landlord, Joe Hind. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Not very long, if you want to get well. 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. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. He hated himself a little for it. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. I have established a fine trade.
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