He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. Poor little one. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. That was what she was trying to make him understand. The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt.
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