"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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