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" "We'll see that, young hempseed," replied Sharples, shutting the hatch furiously in his face, and locking it. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. The militia offered little in the way of relief. "And now, I've one further request," faltered Jack; "though I scarcely know how to make it. "Friday!" echoed Mrs. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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