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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. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. I didn’t know that you had it that bad,” said John. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful.
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