"Slip on the handcuffs," cried the thief-taker. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. " "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. There was. "Hush!" said she, in a low, but agitated voice; "would you earn this purse?" "I've no objection," replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle, but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear.
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