Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. A small voice greeted her, hissing. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. —I'll give him the edication of a prig,—teach him the use of his forks betimes,—and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his father.
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