Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. Nothing. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself. He found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over.
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