"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. She fidgeted and looked away. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. Her eyes flashed. And she would have to go tomorrow. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. I’m turning into a big fat cow.
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