" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. "I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world, and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you.
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