Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Majorities, right or wrong, dare not revolt. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. ‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall.
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