Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. E below. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. Having secured this,—for he was almost famished,—he said that he had lost a hammer and wished to purchase one. At least here she was safe. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ringbolts, with heavy chains attached to them. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. She donned her gloves.
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