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" "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object of their quest. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham.
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