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. He it was who formed the grand design of a robber corporation, of which he should be the sole head and director, with the right of delivering those who concealed their booty, or refused to share it with him, to the gallows. Disappointed puppy-love, and all that. It seemed at this moment, however, that there was not going to be any “fun”, and Captain Roding said so. And yet he knew that his skill was equal to that of any fashionable practitioner in Hong-Kong.
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