"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently.
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