When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. “I was sick of the make-believe. ’ Roding gave him a look of respect. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. Don’t try.
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