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"Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!"
"Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner ough! ough; the Markis o' Slaughterford " Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. "His lordship desires me to say ough! ough!" Fresh groans and hisses.
"To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. Vot am I to do vith these young imps, eh?" "What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. Sharples," replied Quilt; "lock 'em up." "That's easily said. But, suppose I've no place to lock 'em up in, how then?" Quilt looked a little perplexed.
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