His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. “I think she would,” she decided. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. "My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. Be seated, and calm yourself.
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