Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Upon this, Jack earnestly and eloquently addressed himself to the bench, and besought that a petition which he had prepared to be laid before the King might be read. “Where have you been! If Sheila finds out, she’ll kill you!” She summoned a few tears to elicit sympathy from him. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast.
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