"Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. "Dead!" echoed the boy. “But it’s a long business. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. " "I'll not go," answered the other.
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