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Updated: June 11, 2025
And Mother Spurlock stretched out her hands to me in entreaty. "I'm not a leader," I denied her. "I don't see a foot ahead of me. I'm not worth anything. I'm just living and trying to have a good time doing it. You have got a leader, there over the hedge; why don't they follow him and not me?"
But all the talk in the world can't undo it. I'll put you aboard The Tigress to-morrow after sundown. But remember my warning, and play the game!" Spurlock closed his eyes again. The doctor turned quickly and made for the door, which he opened and shut gently because he was assured that Ruth was listening across the hall for any sign of violence.
It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mail-pouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. Spurlock grew cold. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts.
"What is it you want of me?" "All you know about this young fellow Spurlock." "What has he done?" "He has just naturally peeved his Uncle Sam. Now, you know where he is bound." "Did Ah Cum advise you?" "He did pretty well for a Chinaman. But that's his American education. Now, it won't do a bit of good to warn Spurlock. He carries with him something that will mark him anywhere the girl.
Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. "What is your name?" "Ruth." "Ruth what?" "Enschede; Ruth Enschede." "En-shad-ay. You are French?" "No. Dutch; Pennsylvania Dutch."
At that I had stopped, with a self-sufficient feeling of a duty well done, but through it all I also felt that she was on the other side of a prison wall crying to me. "Never," answered Mother Spurlock, with real pain in her voice. "She stays in that back room and cooks for Jacob, and the child stays with her and has only the small yard back of the bar in which to play.
From all angles he was at a disadvantage in weight, skill, endurance. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. "One of us has got to die," he panted. "You've got to kill me to get out of here alive." The Wastrel rushed. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man.
Spurlock possessed that extraordinary condition of the mind which is called New England conscience. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
I've opened the case of books. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Take your pick, Mrs. Spurlock." The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed between Ruth and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely different emotions.
The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. He dropped the key on the counterpane. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. "I know exactly what I have done," replied Spurlock. "She is my lawful wife."
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