"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. "What does he say?" roared the long drover. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. She pulled him by his tee shirt, pulling his mouth to her nipple. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it.
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