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. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. ’ ‘Then you will not be disappointed. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best.
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