"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. 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. Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. Here a little delay occurred. There must be ways of getting rid of him. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad.
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