’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. 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. That really settles about that. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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