Poor Ben was not so fortunate. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. Jack, whose back was towards it, did not see it; but he heard, from the pitying exclamations of the crowd, that it was in view. The audience was made up of parents, teachers, and a few other curious folks from town, all sitting hushed in anticipatory silence as the school orchestra assembled onstage. And when they got to Covent Garden Ramage secured one of the little upper boxes, and they came into it as the overture began. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. That’s my advice.
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