At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork.
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