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, Poll. He deserves none.”
“And shall find none,” replied the Amazon. “Now, Mr. Kneebone,” she added, drawing up her magnificent figure to its full height, and making the heavy cudgel whistle through the air, “look to yourself.”
“Stand off, Poll,” rejoined the woollen-draper; “I don’t want to hurt you. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman.”
“I’ll forgive you all the harm you do me,” rejoined the Amazon. “What! you still hesitate! Will that rouse you, coward?” And she gave him a smart rap on the head.
“Coward!” cried Kneebone. “Neither man nor woman shall apply that term to me. If you forget your sex, jade, I must forget mine.”
With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn.
It was a curious sight to see how this extraordinary woman, who, it has been said, was not less remarkable for the extreme delicacy of her features, and the faultless symmetry of her figure, than for her wonderful strength and agility, conducted herself in the present encounter; with what dexterity she parried every blow aimed against her by her adversary, whose head and face, already marked by various ruddy streams, showed how successfully her own hits had been made; — how she drew him hither and thither, now leading him on, now driving him suddenly back; harassing and exhausting him in every possible way, and making it apparent that she could at any moment put an end to the fight, and only delayed the finishing stroke to make his punishment the more severe.
Jack, meanwhile, with Blueskin’s assistance, had set the table once more upon its legs, and placing writing materials, which he took from a shelf, upon it, made Shotbolt, who was still gagged, but whose arms were for the moment unbound, sit down before them.
“Write as I dictate,” he cried, placing a pen in the jailer’s hand and a pistol to his ear.
Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound.
“Write as follows,” continued Jack. “‘I have succeeded in capturing Jack Sheppard. The reward is mine. Get all ready for his reception. In a few minutes after the delivery of this note he will be in Newgate.’ Sign it,” he added, as, after some further threats, the letter was indited according to his dictation, “and direct it to Mr. Austin. That’s well. And, now, to find a messenger.”
“Mr. Kneebone’s man is in the shop,” said Rachel; “he’ll take it.”
“Can I trust him?” mused Jack. “Yes; he’ll suspect nothing. Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time. Blueskin will go with you — for fear of a mistake.”
“You might trust me,” said Rachel, in an offended tone; “but never mind.”
And she left the room with Blueskin, who very politely offered her his arm.
Meanwhile, the combat between Kneebone and Mrs. Maggot had been brought to a termination. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it.
“That’s for Mrs. Wood,” she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp.
“I’m at your mercy, Poll,” rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
“That’s for Winifred,” vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder.
“Damnation!” cried Kneebone.
“That’s for myself,”
