not his peer among the peerage.”
“Och! if he’s a friend o’ yours, my dear joy, there’s no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan’-‘ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I’d be afther givin’ him another.”
“Well, well — wait awhile,” returned Quilt; “his lordship won’t forget you. He’s as generous as he’s frolicsome.”
As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.
“There’s Sharples,” cried Quilt.
“Whist!” exclaimed Terence; “he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he’s about to spake to us.”
“Gem’men o’ the votch!” cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, “my noble pris’ner — ough! ough; — the Markis o’ Slaughterford ——”
Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night.
“No Mohocks! No Scourers!” cried the mob.
“Hear! hear!” vociferated Quilt.
“His lordship desires me to say — ough! ough!”
Fresh groans and hisses.
“Von’t you hear me? — ough! ough!” demanded Sharples, after a pause.
“By all means,” rejoined Quilt.
“Raise your vice, and lave off coughin’,” added Terence.
“The long and the short o’ the matter’s this then,” returned Sharples with dignity, “the Markis begs your acceptance o’ ten guineas to drink his health.”
The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers.
“And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state,” proceeded Sharples, in a hoarse tone, “that he’ll be responsible for the doctors’ bill of all such gem’men as have received broken pates, or been otherwise damaged in the fray — ough! ough!”
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob.
“We’re all damaged — we’ve all got broken pates,” cried a dozen voices.
“Ay, good luck to him! so we have,” rejoined Terence; “but we’ve no objection to take out the dochter’s bill in drink.”
“None whatever,” replied the mob.
“Your answer, gem’men?” demanded Sharples.
“Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal,” responded the mob.
“Long life to the Marquis!” reiterated Terence; “he’s an honour to ould Ireland!”
“Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” remarked Quilt.
“Troth, and so did you,” returned the watchman; “but I couldn’t belave it. In futur’, I’ll keep the ‘Evenin’ Star’ for his lordship’s enemies.”
“You’d better,” replied Quilt. “But bring your glim this way. I’ve a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples’s care.”
“Be handy, then,” rejoined Terence, “or, I’ll lose my share of the smart money.”
With the assistance of Terence, and a linkboy who volunteered his services, Quilt soon removed the prisoners from the coach, and leaving Sheppard to the custody of Abraham, proceeded to drag Thames towards the round-house. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. Whenever Jack attempted to speak, he was checked by an angry growl from Abraham; and Thames, though his heart was full almost to bursting, felt no inclination to break the silence. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. But his grief was of short duration. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way.
While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put entire faith in Jonathan’s threat of sending him to the round-house, and apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles’s church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. He recognised this object at once. Jonathan had not deceived him.
“What’s this here kinchen in for?” asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them.
“What for?” rejoined Quilt, evasively.
“Oh! nothin’ partickler — mere curossity,” replied Terence. “By the powers!” he added, turning his lantern full upon the face of the captive, “he’s a nice genn-teel-lookin’ kiddy, I must say. Pity he’s ta’en to bad ways so airly.”
“You may spare me your compassion, friend,” observed Thames; “I am falsely detained.”
“Of course,” rejoined Quilt, maliciously; “every thief is so. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. We never supposed you helped yourself to a picture set with diamonds — not we!”
“Is the guv’ner consarned in this job?” asked Terence, in a whisper.
“He is,” returned Quilt, significantly. “Zounds! what’s that!” he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. “The other kid’s given my partner the slip. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter than old Nab’s.” And, committing Thames to the care of the watchman, he darted after the fugitive.
“Do you wish to earn a rich reward, my good friend?” said Thames to the watchman, as soon as they were left alone.
“Is it by lettin’ you go, my darlin’, that I’m to airn it?” inquired Terence. “If so, it won’t pay. You’re Mister Wild’s pris’ner, and worse luck to it!”
“I don’t ask you to liberate me,” urged Thames; “but will you convey a message for me?”
“Where to, honey?”
“To Mr. Wood’s, the carpenter in Wych Street. He lives near the Black Lion.”
“The Black Lion!” echoed Terence. “I know the house well; by the same token that it’s a flash crib. Och! many a mug o’ bubb have I drained wi’ the landlord, Joe Hind. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?”
“He does,” replied Thames. “Tell him that I— his adopted son, Thames Darrell — am detained here by Jonathan Wild.”
“Thames Ditton — is that your name?”
“No,” replied the boy, impatiently; “Darrell — Thames Darrell.”
“I’ll not forget it. It’s a mighty quare ’un, though. I never yet heard of a Christians as was named after the Shannon or the Liffy; and the Thames is no better than a dhurty puddle, compared wi’ them two noble strames. But then you’re an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. People do call their unlawful children strange names. Are you quite shure you haven’t another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?”
“Darrell, I tell you. Will you go? You’ll be paid handsomely for your trouble.”
“I don’t mind the throuble,” hesitated Terence, who was really a good-hearted fellow at the bottom; “and I’d like to sarve you if I could, for you look like a gentleman’s son, and that goes a great way wi’ me. But if Misther Wild were to find out that I thwarted