"The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!" cried the unhappy woman. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. That is, if Spurlock had been throwing money about, which was more than likely. Water soaked her through in five minutes. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof.
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