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. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters. The evil in his eyes towards her was explosive.
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