"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. The class laughed, a few putting their hands to their foreheads in a military salute to mock her.
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