"You frighten the cull out of his senses. ” “Certainly,” Mrs. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. .
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