"Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. \"Awww, sounds like puppy love to me. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he continued, shaking him with great violence. ’ Gerald looked round. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. This way, Sir Rowland. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground.
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