“Stop a minute, my dear,” cried Austin. “You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here.”
“Won’t one from me do as well?” interposed Mrs. Maggot.
“Much better,” said Mrs. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. “I want to speak to Edgeworth Bess myself.”
So saying, she planted herself between Jack and the turnkey. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt.
“Come — the kiss!” cried Austin, endeavouring to pass his arm familiarly round the Amazon’s waist.
“Hands off!” she exclaimed, “or you’ll repent it.”
“Why, what’ll you do?” demanded the turnkey.
“Teach you to keep your distance!” retorted Mrs. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards.
“There! off with you!” whispered Mrs. Spurling, squeezing Jack’s arm, and pushing him towards the door, “and, don’t come here again.”
Before Austin could recover himself, Jack and Mrs. Maggot had disappeared.
“Bolt the wicket!” shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey’s discomfiture.
This was done, and Austin returned with a crest-fallen look to the table. Upon which Mrs. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats.
“You’ll be as good as your word, my charmer,” whispered the executioner.
“Of course,” responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. “Oh! Jack! Jack! — you little know what a price I’ve paid for you!”
“Well, I’m glad those women are gone,” remarked Shotbolt. “Coupling their presence with Jack’s speech, I couldn’t help fearing some mischief might ensue.”
“That reminds me he’s still at large,” returned Ireton. “Here, Caliban, go and fasten his padlock.”
“Iss, Massa Ireton,” replied the black.
“Stop, Caliban,” interposed Mrs. Spurling, who wished to protract the discovery of the escape as long as possible. “Before you go, bring me the bottle of pine-apple rum I opened yesterday. I should like Mr. Ireton and his friends to taste it. It is in the lower cupboard. Oh! you haven’t got the key — then I must have it, I suppose. How provoking!” she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; “one never can find a thing when one wants it.”
“Never mind it, my dear Mrs. Spurling,” rejoined Ireton; “we can taste the rum when he returns. We shall have Mr. Wild here presently, and I wouldn’t for the world — Zounds!” he exclaimed, as the figure of the thief-taker appeared at the wicket, “here he is. Off with you, Caliban! Fly, you rascal!”
“Mr. Wild here!” exclaimed Mrs. Spurling in alarm. “Oh gracious! he’s lost.”
“Who’s lost?” demanded Ireton.
“The key,” replied the widow.
All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him.
“No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir,” he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge.
“No,” replied Jonathan, moodily. “I’ve been deceived by false information. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. I hope this is all. I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. Nothing has gone wrong here?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Ireton. “Jack is just gone back to the Condemned Hold. His two wives have been here.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Jonathan, with a sudden vehemence that electrified the chief turnkey; “what’s this! a spike gone! ‘Sdeath! the women, you say, have been here. He has escaped.”
“Impossible, Sir,” replied Ireton, greatly alarmed.
“Impossible!” echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. “No, Sir, it’s quite possible — more than possible. It’s certain. I’ll lay my life he’s gone. Come with me to the Condemned Hold directly, and, if I find my fears confirmed, I’ll —”
He was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the black, who rushed precipitately into the room, letting fall the heavy bunch of keys in his fright.
“O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!” ejaculated Caliban, “Shack Sheppart gone!”
“Gone? you black devil! — Gone?” cried Ireton.
“Iss, Massa. Caliban sarch ebery hole in de place, but Shack no dere. Only him big hoss padlock — noting else.”
“I knew it,” rejoined Wild, with concentrated rage; “and he escaped you all, in broad day, before your faces. You may well say it’s impossible! His Majesty’s jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say. Ireton, you are in league with him.”
“Sir,” said the chief turnkey, indignantly.
“You are, Sir,” thundered Jonathan; “and, unless you find him, you shan’t hold your place a week. I don’t threaten idly, as you know. And you, Austin; and you Langley, I say the same thing to you.”
“But, Mr. Wild,” implored the turnkeys.
“I’ve said it,” rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. “And you, Marvel, you must have been a party —”
“I, Sir!”
“If he’s not found, I’ll get a new hangman.”
“Zounds!” cried Marvel, “I—”
“Hush!” whispered the tapstress, “or I retract my promise.”
“Mrs. Spurling,” said Jonathan, who overheard the whisper, “you owe your situation to me. If you have aided Jack Sheppard’s escape, you shall owe your discharge to me also.”
“As you please, Sir,” replied the tapstress, coolly. “And the next time Captain Darrell wants a witness, I promise you he shan’t look for one in vain.”
“Ha! hussy, dare you threaten?” cried Wild; but, checking himself, he turned to Ireton and asked, “How long have the women been gone?”
“Scarcely five minutes,” replied the latter.
“One of you fly to the market,” returned Jonathan; “another to the river; a third to the New Mint. Disperse in every direction. We’ll have him yet. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him.”
So saying, he rushed out, followed by Ireton and Langley.
“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Shotbolt. “That’s a glorious reward. Do you think he’ll pay it?”
“I’m sure of it,” replied Austin.
“Then I’ll have it before to-morrow morning,” said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. “If Jack Sheppard sups with Mr. Kneebone, I’ll make one of the party.”
CHAPTER 11.
DOLLIS HILL REVISITED.
About an hour after the occurrences at Newgate, the door of the small back-parlour already described at Dollis Hill was opened by Winifred, who, gliding noiselessly across the room, approached a couch, on which was extended a sleeping female, and, gazing anxiously at her pale careworn countenance, murmured — “Heaven be praised! she still slumbers — slumbers peacefully. The opiate has done its duty. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!”
Deathlike,