Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. Caliban absolutely crowed with delight. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. “She’s been up to no good, Sheila. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal.
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