But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history.
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