I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. My father thought the latter. "Thus," replied the prize-fighter. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls.
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