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. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Made me fetch up Trodger and a couple more men, and together we searched his luggage and got hold of every single paper the man possessed. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble.
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