" "I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture," cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. 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. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday.
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