“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in.
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