‘I can take care of myself, bête. White,” she remarked. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks.
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