Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I guess. But—if you are a friend of Mr. U. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed.
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