"Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. I won't have a beachcomber on the island.
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