Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. Covering his face with a crape mask, and taking the candle from his associate, Jack entered the room; and, pistol in hand, stepped up to the bed, and approached the light to the eyes of the sleepers. "Mr.
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