"Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. No doubt he has been drinking for days without eating substantially, and his heart gave out. ’ He could just see the glare. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity.
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