"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. ’ ‘Don’t count on it. As her belly swelled, so did he. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. “I have not quarrelled with her. I want you to hold me and have me SO. I am come to serve you. This is the way the old thief brings in all his heavy plunder, which he stows in out-of-the-way holes in his infernal dwelling. But never mind that," said McClintock grinning as he drew the dish of bread-fruit toward him.
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