“I told you the prison wasn’t built that could hold me,” cried Jack.
“You’re not out yet, you young hound,” rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door.
“But I soon shall be,” returned Jack; “take these,” he added, flinging the handcuffs against the wooden partition, “and wear ’em yourself.”
“Halloo, Nab!” vociferated Quilt. “What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?”
“Not if I can help it,” returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. “By my shalvation, boy,” he added, fiercely, “if you don’t take your hande off my peard, I’ll sthrangle you.”
“Help me, Jack!” shouted Thames, “or I shan’t be able to keep the villain down.”
“Stick the spike into him, then,” returned Sheppard, coolly, “while I unbar the outlet.”
But Thames had no intention of following his friend’s advice. Contenting himself with brandishing the weapon in the Jew’s eyes, he exerted all his force to prevent him from rising.
While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting — as if in contempt of the general uproar — the following strain:—
With pipe and punch upon the board,
And smiling nymphs around us;
No tavern could more mirth afford
Than old Saint Giles’s round-house!
The round-house! the round-house! The jolly — jolly round-house!
“The jolly, jolly round-house!” chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. “Hurrah! come along, Thames; we’re free.”
“Not sho fasht — not sho fasht!” cried Abraham, struggling with Thames, and detaining him; “if you go, you musht take me along vid you.”
“Save yourself, Jack!” shouted Thames, sinking beneath the superior weight and strength of his opponent; “leave me to my fate!”
“Never,” replied Jack, hurrying towards him. And, snatching the spike from Thames, he struck the janizary a severe blow on the head. “I’ll make sure work this time,” he added, about to repeat the blow.
“Hold!” interposed Thames, “he can do no more mischief. Let us be gone.”
“As you please,” returned Jack, leaping up; “but I feel devilishly inclined to finish him. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of his dues.”
With this, he was preparing to follow his friend, when their egress was prevented by the sudden appearance of Jonathan Wild and Blueskin.
CHAPTER 13.
THE MAGDALENE.
The household of the worthy carpenter, it may be conceived, was thrown into the utmost confusion and distress by the unaccountable disappearance of the two boys. As time wore on, and they did not return, Mr. Wood’s anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a gentle knock at the door.
“There he is!” cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only. “There he is!”
“I fear not,” said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. “Thames would let himself in; and Jack generally finds an entrance through the backdoor or the shop-window, when he has been out at untimely hours. But, go and see who it is, love. Stay! I’ll go myself.”
His daughter, however, anticipated him. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was “only Mrs. Sheppard.”
“Who?” almost screamed Mrs. Wood.
“Jack Sheppard’s mother,” answered the little girl, dejectedly; “she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you.”
“For me!” vociferated Mrs. Wood, in indignant surprise. “Eggs for me! You mistake, child. They must be for your father.”
“No; I’m quite sure she said they’re for you,” replied Winifred; “but she does want to see father.”
“I thought as much,” sneered Mrs. Wood.
“I’ll go to her directly,” said Wood, bustling towards the door. “I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack.”
“I dare say no such thing,” interposed his better half, authoritatively; “remain where you are, Sir.”
“At all events, let me send her away, my dear,” supplicated the carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm.
“Do you hear me?” cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. “Stir a foot, at your peril.”
“But, my love,” still remonstrated Wood, “you know I’m going to look after the boys ——”
“After Mrs. Sheppard, you mean, Sir,” interrupted his wife, ironically. “Don’t think to deceive me by your false pretences. Marry, come up! I’m not so easily deluded. Sit down, I command you. Winny, show the person into this room. I’ll see her myself; and that’s more than she bargained for, I’ll be sworn.”
Finding it useless to struggle further, Mr. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent’s commission.
“At length, I have my wish,” continued Mrs. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “I shall behold the shameless hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking as she’s represented, I don’t know what I’ll do in the end; but I’ll begin by scratching her eyes out.”
In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. Wood’s reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. As she approached, the carpenter’s wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. But she was disappointed. Mrs. Sheppard’s dress — extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material — offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that — if she had been ill-looking — she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her. But, alas! she was beautiful — and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman.
As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion — still pale, but without its former sickly cast — contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. One marked difference between the