"Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements.
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