“You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. While you talked I was only making our plans. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch.
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