Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. . "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. You can enjoy him and then drink him up.
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