“Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. Wait a moment. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Old pupil. "You are," replied Kneebone. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment.
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