McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question. While he was filling his pockets with golden coin from this store, Blueskin had pulled the plate-chest from under the bed, and having forced it open, began filling a canvass bag with its contents,—silver coffee-pots, chocolate-dishes, waiters trays, tankards, goblets, and candlesticks. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He cherished her. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked.
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