When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. ‘Do not speak of him. Pretty good stuff, some of it. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.
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