"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. "What are you doing with him?" "It's a long story, Captain, and I've no breath to tell it,—unless you choose to release me," rejoined Quilt.
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