He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. The door popped open with a sigh.
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