Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. I thought that he was dead. ‘I am not a murderer. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose.
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