“That’s what we narcs have to do. He was no match for Brendon. —'How so?' says I. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Finally she fell into reflection. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark.
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