I need only just jump up and throw myself upon you. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters. There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. . .
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