"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. "I can't say I do," replied Wood. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. That's a queer yarn. O'Higgins, but I decline to give you the least information. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood.
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