"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. I can get that at the bar," the manager said, curtly.
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