They moved fast. " Her island! How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he lacked the name and whereabouts! Suddenly a new thought arose and buffeted him. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. It’s all nonsense. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging.
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