" "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. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. " "That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess," returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk. In a moment, Roding and Lucilla joined him.
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