" "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. ‘We were wondering about that. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. .
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