"Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. Miss Klegg and the youngest girl made a vigorous attack on Miss Garvice, who had said she thought women lost something infinitely precious by mingling in the conflicts of life. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought.
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