Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. “My wife. And lunged once more. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. “Not to-night,” she said. " "You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir," urged the widow. “He tried it. I know life. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet.
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