" "And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth. Wood obeyed. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily.
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