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Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. " "That's right, Captain," rejoined Blueskin. This done, he followed the course which Jack had just taken. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Wood—and after him came his daughter. Drawing his hanger he rode amongst the crowd, trampled upon those most in advance, and made an attempt to seize their leader, in whom he recognised Blueskin.
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