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"Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. The manager twisted his moustache. "The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. But I trusted to that ring of yours. “My God!” he said again. It was empty.
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