“A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. 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. CHAPTER XIX. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. She did not twitch. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me.
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