"Will he live?" asked Ruth. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. . That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel.
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