"Ja," answered Van; "at a minut's nodish. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. You understand what I mean. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. “Yeah, where the hell were you? My friends would have driven you home when I came home if I could have found you. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Come along, you mad jade. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt.
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