"Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. This world over here! Everything's upsidedown or back-end-to. But, say we're friends. "Jack," said Wild, with a glance of malignant triumph, "I will now tell you what I have done. Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor.
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