Jack Sheppard. Vol. 3. Ainsworth William Harrison

action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard.

      “Restore it,” he cried, in an authoritative voice.

      “O’ons! Captain,” cried Blueskin, as he grumblingly obeyed the command; “if you’ve left off business yourself, you needn’t interfere with other people.”

      “I should like a little of that plum-tart,” said Mrs. Maggot; “but I don’t see a spoon.”

      “I’ll ring for one,” replied Kneebone, rising accordingly; “but I fear my servants are gone to bed.”

      Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:—

      Once on a time, as I’ve heard tell.

      In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell;

      A carpenter he was by trade,

      And money, I believe, he made.

      With his foodle doo!

      This carpenter he had a wife,

      The plague and torment of his life,

      Who, though she did her husband scold,

      Loved well a woollen-draper bold.

      With her foodle doo!

      “I’ve a toast to propose,” cried Sheppard, filling a bumper. “You won’t refuse it, Mr. Kneebone?”

      “He’d better not,” muttered Blueskin.

      “What is it?” demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.

      “The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood,” replied Jack.

      Kneebone’s cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.

      Now Owen Wood had one fair child,

      Unlike her mother, meek and mild;

      Her love the draper strove to gain,

      But she repaid him with disdain.

      With his foodle doo!

      “Peace!” cried Jack.

      But Blueskin was not to be silenced. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader.

      In vain he fondly urged his suit,

      And, all in vain, the question put;

      She answered,—“Mr. William Kneebone,

      Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.”

      With your foodle doo!

      “Thames Darrell has my heart alone,

      A noble youth, e’en you must own;

      And, if from him my love could stir,

      Jack Sheppard I should much prefer!”

      With his foodle doo!

      “Do you refuse my toast?” cried Jack, impatiently.

      “I do,” replied Kneebone.

      “Drink this, then,” roared Blueskin. And pouring the contents of a small powder-flask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.

      At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel.

      “What did you ring for, Sir?” she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment.

      “Your master wants a few table-spoons, child,” said Mrs. Maggot.

      “Leave the room,” interposed Kneebone, angrily.

      “No, I shan’t,” replied Rachel, saucily. “I came to see Jack Sheppard, and I won’t go till you point him out to me. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn’t have another opportunity.”

      “Oh! he told you that, did he?” said Blueskin, marching up to her, and chucking her under the chin. “I’ll show you Captain Sheppard, my dear. There he stands. I’m his lieutenant,—Lieutenant Blueskin. We’re two good-looking fellows, ain’t we?”

      “Very good-looking,” replied Rachel. “But, where’s the strange gentleman I saw under the table?”

      “Under the table!” echoed Blueskin, winking at Jack. “When did you see him, my love?”

      “A short time ago,” replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously.

      “The plot’s out!” cried Jack. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. The crash was tremendous. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack’s head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer’s arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. In the struggle the pistol went off, but without damage to either party. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He was speedily disarmed; and the rope and gag being found upon him, were exultingly turned against him by his conqueror, who, after pinioning his arms tightly behind his back, forced open his mouth with the iron, and effectually prevented the utterance of any further outcries. While the strife was raging, Edgeworth Bess walked up to Rachel, and advised her, if she valued her life, not to scream or stir from the spot; a caution which the housekeeper, whose curiosity far outweighed her fears, received in very good part.

      In the interim, Jack advanced to the woollen-draper, and regarding him sternly, thus addressed him:

      “You have violated the laws of hospitality, Mr. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. You have betrayed me.”

      “What faith is to be kept with a felon?” replied the woollen-draper, disdainfully.

      “He who breaks faith with his benefactor may well justify himself thus,” answered Jack. “I have not trusted you. Others who have done, have found you false.”

      “I don’t understand you,” replied Kneebone, in some confusion.

      “You soon shall,” rejoined Sheppard. “Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?”

      “The packets!” exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm.

      “It is useless to deny it,” replied Jack. “You were watched to-night by Blueskin. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland’s chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. Wood. Produce them!”

      “Never!” replied Kneebone.

      “Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!” replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. “I give you one minute for reflection. After that time nothing shall save you.”

      There was a brief, breathless pause. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety.

      “It is past,” said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger.

      “Hold!” cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; “they are nothing to me.”

      “But they are everything to me,” cried Jack, stooping to pick them up. “These packets will establish Thames Darrell’s birth, win him his inheritance, and procure him the hand of Winifred Wood.”

      “Don’t be too sure of that,” rejoined Kneebone, snatching up the staff, and aiming a blow at his head, which was fortunately warded off by Mrs. Maggot, who promptly interposed her cudgel.

      “Defend yourself!” cried Jack, drawing his sword.

      “Leave his punishment to me, Jack,” said Mrs. Maggot. “I’ve the Bridewell account to settle.”

      “Be it so,” replied Jack, putting up his blade. “I’ve a good deal to do. Show him no quarter,