I had a perfect shoal of callers. "No," replied Jack, peremptorily. The man was dangerous. Plote was sleeping or deaf. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose.
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