" "Faix, then we'll do it in style," cried the fellow. ’ ‘Lord, man, it’s only a scratch!’ Suddenly Gerald snapped his fingers. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. I don’t think they do matter. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows.
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