The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

in my life,” said the poet — “never!”

      “He’s just the man I expected to see,” observed Hogarth, who, having arranged everything to Thornhill’s satisfaction, had turned to look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes upon him, “just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure — all muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. In my search after strange characters, Mr. Gay, I’ve been in many odd quarters of our city — have visited haunts frequented only by thieves — the Old Mint, the New Mint, the worst part of St. Giles’s, and other places — but I’ve nowhere seen any one who came up so completely to my notion of a first-rate housebreaker as the individual before us. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected.”

      As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard’s countenance.

      “He understands me, you perceive,” said Hogarth.

      “Well, I won’t dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Hogarth,” replied Gay. “But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn’t extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented — so young, too, for such an old offender. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.”

      “I am one-and-twenty,” observed Jack.

      “One-and-twenty, ah!” repeated Gay. “Well, I’m not far from the mark.”

      “He is certainly extremely youthful-looking and very slightly made,” said Thornhill, who had been attentively studying Sheppard’s countenance. “But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the person to do what he has done. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. Pitt?”

      “Certainly, Sir James, certainly,” replied the governor. “Get a chair, Austin.”

      While this order was obeyed, Figg, who had been standing near the door, made his way to the prisoner, and offered him his huge hand, which Jack warmly grasped.

      “Well, Jack,” said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cut-and-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; “how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Wouldn’t take my advice. Told you how it would be. One mistress enough to ruin a man — two, the devil. Laughed at me, then. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now.”

      “You’re not come here to insult me, Mr. Figg?” said Jack, peevishly.

      “Insult you! not I;” returned Figg. “Heard of your escapes. Everybody talking of you. Wished to see you. Old pupil. Capital swordsman. Shortly to be executed. Come to take leave. Trifle useful?” he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack’s hand.

      “You are very kind,” said Jack, returning the money; “but I don’t require assistance.”

      “Too proud, eh?” rejoined the prize-fighter. “Won’t be under an obligation.”

      “There you’re wrong, Mr. Figg,” replied Jack, smiling; “for, before I’m taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you.”

      “Have it, and welcome,” rejoined Figg. “Always plenty to spare. Never bought a shirt in my life, Mr. Gay,” he added, turning to the poet. “Sold a good many, though.”

      “How do you manage that, Mr. Figg?” asked Gay.

      “Thus,” replied the prize-fighter. “Proclaim a public fight. Challenge accepted. Fifty pupils. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. Fifty sent home. All superfine holland. Wear one on the stage on the following day. Cut to pieces — slashed — bloodied. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Offer to return it to each in private. All make the same answer —‘d——n you, keep it.’”

      “An ingenious device,” laughed Gay.

      Sir James Thornhill’s preparations being completed, Mr. Pitt desired to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and withdrew.

      “Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack,” said Sir James. “Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please.”

      Sheppard immediately complied with the painter’s request; while Gay and Figg drew back on one side, and Hogarth on the other. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil.

      “I’ll make a sketch, too,” he said. “Jack Sheppard’s face is well worth preserving.”

      After narrowly examining the countenance of the sitter, and motioning him with his pencil into a particular attitude, Sir James Thornhill commenced operations; and, while he rapidly transferred his lineaments to the canvass, engaged him in conversation, in the course of which he artfully contrived to draw him into a recital of his adventures. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. During the narration Jack’s features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. All the party were greatly interested by Sheppard’s history — especially Figg, who laughed loud and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell.

      “We must change the subject,” remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; “this will never do.”

      “Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin. “We never suffer him to mention Mr. Wild’s name. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.”

      “I don’t wonder at it,” rejoined Gay.

      Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard’s attention.

      “And so you’ve given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth.

      “That’s scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild — I have not.”

      “Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.”

      “Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you’ll do what no man ever did before.”

      A peculiar smile illuminated Jack’s features.

      “There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There’s the exact expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don’t move! — Don’t alter a muscle, if you can help it.”

      And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.

      “I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad! it’s a devilish fine face when lit up.”

      “As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill’s shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.”

      “The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it; —“with all the escapes written in it.”

      “You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it is like.”

      “What do you think of my sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing.

      “It’s like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants something here.” And he pointed significantly to the hand.

      “I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it.

      “It’s better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you’ve given me what I don’t possess.”

      “Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don’t see how I can