tattooed on his breast. It’s jest a small, thin, blue arrow — that’s what it is; and if you don’t look clost, you can’t see it.

Now what do you say — hey?”

Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek.

The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he’d got the king this time, and says:

“There — you’ve heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks’s breast?”

Both of them spoke up and says:

“We didn’t see no such mark.”

“Good!”