Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. Mr. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. They heard voices inside but stood for a full thirty seconds looking at each other. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. Some of these persons were examining the spot where the spike had been cut off; others the spike itself, now considered a remarkable object; and all were marvelling how Jack could have possibly squeezed himself through such a narrow aperture, until it was explained to them by Mr. He was not there.
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