“What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. " "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. The heroism of two beach combers had saved all on board and their own manhood as well. Sc.
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