The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan. " "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. Her efforts were vain. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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