His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. Having secured this implement, he burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally spring into the clockfaces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the pantomime,—that is, back foremost,— broke into a fit of loud and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the boards. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. "To-morrow it will be mine. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected. ” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw.
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