‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He’s a salesman for AT and T, but he’s never made a lot of money. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house.
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