We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing. Three short days. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. ” He started back as though he had been shot. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded.
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