" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest. Will I meet you there?’ ‘Yes, yes, I shall await you. " "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town.
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