Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.
"They are hellish things," said he.

"Look out that you don't prick yourself.

I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has.

There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long.

I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.