Maggot had disappeared. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. "Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment of Prudence. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave. That is so awful.
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