‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. ’ He took his seat next to her, waving the fulminating captain towards the tray. 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. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance.
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