Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. But this was long ago. " "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. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. " "Yes, I will," replied Jack sullenly, "if you beat me in that way. It was most amusing. I think you are hard.
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