Losing his presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the frame. " "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. “I am happy. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever.
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