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. He loves the Mendelians because he hates all the big names of the eighties and nineties. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. . . They are mine! They were sent to ‘Alcide’ not to you. Your purposes are defeated. But, perhaps Mr.
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