Trenchard glanced at the document. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. No, I thank you. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. No trouble will ever come to your sister through me. And don't worry about the six thousand, Hoddy. "Ah! what is that?" he cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face. .
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