"No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. You’d make a good Devil. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture.
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