"Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said. " "Then you are taking me on?" Spurlock's eyes grew soft like those of a dog that, expecting the whip, saw only the kindly hand. CHAPTER XVIII.
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