That was the glorious if bewildering truth. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. " ***** "To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet.
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