" "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. CHAPTER I. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth.
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