"My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. ’ ‘Gammon!’ burst from the captain, who had just tossed off a glass of Madeira. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. “Oh. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. He was like a man beside himself. "So she got away as far as this, eh? But where does she come in?" The doctor recounted that side of the tale.
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