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"But, vicious as it was, neither Shanklin nor you, his side-partner, has ever made a squeal. If it was a holdup, why haven't you sent one of your little sheriffs out after me?" "I'm no partner of Hun Shanklin's!" denied Boyle. "Maybe you've parted company since the night you slugged me and nailed me up in that box for the river to hide your work."

I had a sovereign and a few shillings in my pocket, which I offered the old skipper, but he would receive nothing; and, as good as his word, as soon as it was dark, he ran in and put me on shore not far from Shanklin. As there was some sea on the beach, all hands got not a little wet, but they took it in good part, and wished me a hearty good-bye as I set off to clamber up the cliffs.

Slavens gave it a shake, smoothed the heaviest of the creases with his hand, and went out to deliver it to its owner. Shanklin was facing the other way, in the direction of his own camp. His attitude was in sharp contrast with the easy, lounging posture of a few moments before. He was tense and alert, straining forward a little, his lean body poised as if he balanced for a jump.

You walked right into his hand that night." "I seemed to," admitted Slavens with bitter recollection. "Shanklin knew about copper in these rocks over here " "So it's copper?" said Slavens, unable to restrain his words. "Copper; that's what it is," nodded Ten-Gallon. "But it ain't on this claim, and I'll show that in a minute, too.

South of Shanklin the chalk-cliffs are bold and lofty, and off these pretty shores the "Eurydice" was lost in a squall, March 24, 1878, when returning from her training-cruise in the West Indies.

Walker was gravely silent a little while, like a man who has just arrived at the proper appreciation of some grave danger which he has escaped. "I've heard of Hun Shanklin a long time, but I never saw him before," he said. "He's killed several men in his time. Do you suppose he knows you shoved his table, or does he think somebody back of you pushed you against it?"

"You seem to be doin' the talkin'," returned Shanklin with a show of cold indifference, although Slavens saw that he watched every movement Boyle made, and more than once in those few seconds the doctor marked Hun's sinewy right arm twitch as if on the point of making some swift stroke. Boyle stopped while there was yet a rod between them, so hot with anger that his hands were trembling.

"And I know how to jar you loose!" threatened Boyle. Shanklin leaned toward the Governor's son never so little, his left hand lifted to point his utterance, and opened upon Boyle the most withering stream of blasphemous profanity that Slavens had ever heard. If there ever was a man who cursed by note, as they used to say, Hun Shanklin was that one. He laid it to Boyle in a blue streak.

"What is your name?" he managed at last. "Joan." She looked her own question at him, and it was not necessary to voice it. "Mine is Ross Shanklin," he volunteered, for the first time in forgotten years giving his real name. "I suppose you've travelled a lot." "I sure have, but not as much as I might have wanted to." "Papa always wanted to travel, but he was too busy at the office.

Never mind; they say dress after seven o'clock here, but they're not strict. We can smuggle you in." Oh, how Reginald wished he was safe back in Dull Street! "By the way," continued Blandford, "these are two friends of mine, Cruden Mr Shanklin and Mr Pillans. Cruden's an old Wilderham fellow, you know," he added, in an explanatory aside.