If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. For freedom at least.
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