“What do you think of that?” he asked. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. While he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and examined the haft. This done, he let himself carefully down by it, and having only a few feet to drop, alighted in safety. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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