I have two Malay clerks in the store; but I'm obliged to have a white man to watch over them, or they'd clean me out. But I’m going to-day. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. 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. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. “Sold again,” she remarked.
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