Stonily he had disengaged himself. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Yet I think that he will do it.
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