Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house.
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