here by Jonathan Wild.”
“Thames Ditton — is that your name?”
“No,” replied the boy, impatiently; “Darrell — Thames Darrell.”
“I’ll not forget it. It’s a mighty quare ’un, though. I never yet heard of a Christians as was named after the Shannon or the Liffy; and the Thames is no better than a dhurty puddle, compared wi’ them two noble strames. But then you’re an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. People do call their unlawful children strange names. Are you quite shure you haven’t another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?”
“Darrell, I tell you. Will you go? You’ll be paid handsomely for your trouble.”
“I don’t mind the throuble,” hesitated Terence, who was really a good-hearted fellow at the bottom; “and I’d like to sarve you if I could, for you look like a gentleman’s son, and that goes a great way wi’ me. But if Misther Wild were to find out that I thwarted his schames ——”
“I’d not be in your skin for a trifle,” interrupted Quilt, who having secured Sheppard, and delivered him to Abraham, now approached them unawares; “and it shan’t be my fault if he don’t hear of it.”
“‘Ouns!” ejaculated Terence, in alarm, “would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?”
“Ay, if he plays a-cross,” returned Quilt. “Come along, my sly shaver. With all your cunning, we’re more than a match for you.”
“But not for me,” growled Terence, in an under tone.
“Remember!” cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along.
“Remember the devil!” retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. “Do you think I’m afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. Master Thames Ditton, I’ll do your biddin’; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you.”
“Dog!” exclaimed Quilt, turning fiercely upon him, “do you threaten?”
But the watchman eluded his grasp, and, mingling with the crowd, disappeared.
CHAPTER 12.
SAINT GILES’S ROUND-HOUSE.
Saint Giles’s Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an angle of Kendrick Yard. Originally built, as its name imports, in a cylindrical form, like a modern Martello tower, it had undergone, from time to time, so many alterations, that its symmetry was, in a great measure, destroyed. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end — a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale — and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture — it hardly deserved to be called a door — pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles’s Church. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within.
Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis’s donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. He was followed, more leisurely, by the prisoners; and, during their ascent, Jack Sheppard made a second attempt to escape by ducking suddenly down, and endeavouring to pass under his conductor’s legs. The dress of the dwarfish Jew was not, however, favourable to this expedient. Jack was caught, as in a trap, by the pendant tails of Abraham’s long frock; and, instead of obtaining his release by his ingenuity, he only got a sound thrashing.
Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door.
“Vell,” he growled, addressing Quilt, “you know who’s here, I suppose?”
“To be sure I do,” replied Quilt; “my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. What of that?”
“Vot ‘o that!” echoed Sharples, peevishly: “Everythin’. Vot am I to do vith these young imps, eh?”
“What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. Sharples,” replied Quilt; “lock ’em up.”
“That’s easily said. But, suppose I’ve no place to lock ’em up in, how then?”
Quilt looked a little perplexed. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside.
“Vell, vell,” growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other’s remonstrances, “it shall be done. But it’s confounded inconvenient. One don’t often get sich a vindfal as the Markis ——”
“Or such a customer as Mr. Wild,” edged in Quilt.
“Now, then, Saint Giles!” interposed Sheppard, “are we to be kept here all night?”
“Eh day!” exclaimed Sharples: “wot new-fledged bantam’s this?”
“One that wants to go to roost,” replied Sheppard. “So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch.”
“Comin’! comin’!” returned the constable, shuffling towards him.
“Coming! — so is midnight — so is Jonathan Wild,” retorted Jack, with a significant look at Thames.
“Have you never an out-o-the-vay corner, into vich you could shtow these troublesome warmint?” observed Abraham. “The guv’ner’ll be here afore midnight.”
Darrell’s attention was drawn to the latter part of this speech by a slight pressure on his foot. And, turning at the touch, he perceived Sheppard’s glance fixed meaningly upon him.
“Stow it, Nab!” exclaimed Quilt, angrily; “the kinchen’s awake.”
“Awake! — to be sure I am, my flash cove,” replied Sheppard; “I’m down as a hammer.”
“I’ve just bethought me of a crib as’ll serve their turn,” interposed Sharples, “at any rate, they’ll be out o’ the vay, and as safe as two chicks in a coop.”
“Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles,” said Jack, in a tone of mock authority.
The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment,
