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. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Wood's famous 'prentice?" "What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise. .
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