Anna made things for her. 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. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you. I had done my research on jet propulsion and I figured that I could build a simple engine for it. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by his companion's intemperance.
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