McClintock does it; and he knows why. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. "Captain," he cried, in a voice of the bitterest anguish, "have these dogs again hunted you down? If you hadn't been so unlucky, I should have been with you before to-morrow night. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. Do you live here?" "Not exactly," answered the carpenter. Spurlock looked up. English a little! ‘You ought to have English only. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin.
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