CHAPTER VIII. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. "His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight. It was a dead calm. Howard Taber. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him.
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