"Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. "I'll tell you," replied Jack, with forced calmness.
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