Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “We should get out of here. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls.
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