While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. Near the door stood a pile of deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice. You understand. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He lost control of the machine. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better.
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