As Blueskin still continued obstinate, the judgment appointed to be executed upon such prisoners as stood mute, was then read. It was as follows, and, when uttered, produced a strong effect upon all who heard it, except the prisoner, who, in no respect, altered his sullen and dogged demeanour.
“Prisoner at the bar,” thus ran the sentence, “you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment. You shall lie upon your back; your head shall be covered; and your feet shall be bare. One of your arms shall be drawn to one side of the room, and the other arm to the other side, and your legs shall be served in the like manner. Then, there shall be laid upon your body as much iron, or stone as you can bear, and more. And the first day, you shall have three morsels of barley bread, without any drink; and the second day, you shall be allowed to drink as much as you can, at three times, of the water that is next to the prison-door, except running-water, without any bread. And this shall be your diet till you die.”
“Prisoner at the bar,” continued the clerk of the court, “he against whom this judgment is given, forfeits his goods to the king.”
An awful silence prevailed throughout the court. Every eye was fixed upon the prisoner. But, as he made no answer, he was removed.
Before the full sentence was carried into execution, he was taken into a small room adjoining the court. Here Marvel, the executioner, who was in attendance, was commanded by Wild to tie his thumbs together, which he did with whipcord so tightly, that the string cut to the bone. But, as this produced no effect, and did not even elicit a groan, the prisoner was carried back to Newgate.
The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. To these a heavy wooden apparatus was attached, which could be raised or lowered at pleasure by pullies. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart. When the prisoner was brought into this room, he was again questioned; but, continuing contumacious, preparations were made for inflicting the torture. His great personal strength being so well known, it was deemed prudent by Marvel to have all the four partners, together with Caliban, in attendance. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. But just as they were about to place him on the ground, he burst from their hold, and made a desperate spring at Jonathan, who was standing with his arms folded near the door watching the scene. The attempt was unsuccessful. He was instantly overpowered, and stretched upon the ground. The four men fell upon him, holding his arms and legs, while Caliban forced back his head. In this state, he contrived to get the poor black’s hand into his mouth, and nearly bit off one of his fingers before the sufferer could be rescued. Meanwhile, the executioner had attached strong cords to his ankles and wrists, and fastened them tightly to the iron rings. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner’s breast. Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press. As this seemed insufficient, after a lapse of five minutes, he added another hundred weight. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. After he had endured this torture for an hour, at a sign from Wild another hundred weight was added. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears.
“Water!” he gasped.
The executioner shook his head.
“Do you submit?” interrogated Wild.
Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor. His efforts at self-destruction were, however, prevented.
“Try fifty pounds more,” said Jonathan.
“Stop!” groaned Blueskin.
“Will you plead?” demanded Wild, harshly.
“I will,” answered the prisoner.
“Release him,” said Jonathan. “We have cured his obstinacy, you perceive,” he added to Marvel.
“I will live,” cried Blueskin, with a look of the deadliest hatred at Wild, “to be revenged on you.”
And, as the weights were removed, he fainted.
CHAPTER XVI. HOW JACK SHEPPARD’S PORTRAIT WAS PAINTED
Early in the morning of Thursday, the 15th of October, 1724, the door of the Castle was opened by Austin, who, with a look of unusual importance, announced to the prisoner that four gentlemen were shortly coming up with the governor to see him,—“four such gentlemen,” he added, in a tone meant to impress his auditor with a due sense of the honour intended him, “as you don’t meet every day.”
“Is Mr. Wood among them?” asked Jack, eagerly.
“Mr. Wood!—no,” replied the turnkey. “Do you think I’d take the trouble to announce him? These are persons of consequence, I tell you.”
“Who are they?” inquired Sheppard.
“Why, first,” rejoined Austin, “there’s Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Those grand designs in the dome of St. Paul’s are his work. So is the roof of the state-room at Hampton Court Palace, occupied by Queen Anne, and the Prince of Denmark. So is the chapel of All Souls at Oxford, and the great hall at Blenheim, and I don’t know how many halls and chapels besides. He’s now engaged on the hall at Greenwich Hospital.”
“I’ve heard of him,” replied Jack, impatiently. “Who are the others?”
“Let me see. There’s a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Then, there’s Mr. Gay, the poet, who wrote the ‘Captives,’ which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. And, lastly, there’s Mr. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields.”
“Figg’s an old friend of mine,” rejoined Jack; “he was my instructor in the small sword and back sword exercise. I’m glad he’s come to see me.”
“You don’t inquire what brings Sir James Thornhill here?” said Austin.
“Curiosity, I suppose,” returned Jack, carelessly.
“No such thing,” rejoined the jailer; “he’s coming on business.”
“On what business, in the name of wonder?” asked Sheppard.
“To paint your portrait,” answered the jailer.
“My portrait!” echoed Jack.
“By desire of his Majesty,” said the jailer, consequentially. “He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you’re like. There’s a feather in your cap! No house-breaker was ever so highly honoured before.”
“And have my escapes really made so much noise as to reach the ear of royalty?” mused Jack. “I have done nothing—nothing to what I could do—to what I will do!”
“You’ve done quite enough,” rejoined Austin; “more than you’ll ever do again.”
“And then to be taken thus, in these disgraceful bonds!” continued Jack, “to be held up as a sight for ever!”
“Why, how else would you be taken?” exclaimed the jailer, with a coarse laugh. “It’s very well Mr. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. For my part, I think those shackles extremely becoming. But, here they are.”
Voices being heard at the door, Austin flew to open it, and admitted Mr. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn, ushered in four other individuals. The first of these, whom he addressed as Mr. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. The poet’s appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. On the contrary, he was a universal favourite, and numbered amongst his intimate acquaintances the choicest spirits of the time,—Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and “all the better brothers.” His demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle; and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. In worldly matters Gay was not fortunate. Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck.
Places, I found, were daily given away,
And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay.
The prodigious success of the “Beggars’ Opera,” which was produced about four years after the date of this history, rewarded him for all his previous disappointments, though it did not fully justify the well-known epigram, alluding to himself and the manager, and “make Gay rich, and Rich gay.” At the time of his present introduction, his play of “The Captives,” had just been produced at Drury Lane, and he was meditating his “Fables,” which were published two years afterwards.
Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. His age was not far from fifty. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon.
The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the “Atlas of the sword,” as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and “skull covering,” and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and close-shaven pate. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathern-looking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. The above description of
—the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains
Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary’bone plains—
may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that “there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;” but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Seconded by his strength and temper, his skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost a battle. His imperturbable demeanour in the fight has been well portrayed by Captain Godfrey, who here condescends to lay aside his stilts. “His right leg bold and firm, and his left, which could hardly ever be disturbed, gave him a surprising advantage, and struck his adversary with despair and panic. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure.” Figg’s prowess in a combat with Button has been celebrated by Dr. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the “Rake’s Progress,” and in “Southwark Fair.”
On the appearance of his visitors, Sheppard arose,—his gyves clanking heavily as he made the movement,—and folding his arms, so far as his manacles would permit him, upon his breast, steadily returned the glances fixed upon him.
“This is the noted house-breaker and prison-breaker, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner.
“Odd’s life!” cried Gay, in astonishment; “is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. This is a mere boy. Are you sure you haven’t mistaken the ward, Mr. Pitt?”
“There is no mistake, Sir,” rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, “I am Jack Sheppard.”
“Well, I never was more surprised in my life,” said the poet,—“never!”
“He’s just the man I expected to see,” observed Hogarth, who, having arranged everything to Thornhill’s satisfaction, had turned to look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes upon him, “just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure,—all muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. In my search after strange characters, Mr. Gay, I’ve been in many odd quarters of our city—have visited haunts frequented only by thieves—the Old Mint, the New Mint, the worst part of St. Giles’s, and other places—but I’ve nowhere seen any one who came up so completely to my notion of a first-rate housebreaker as the individual before us. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected.”
As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard’s countenance.
“He understands me, you perceive,” said Hogarth.
“Well, I won’t dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Hogarth,” replied Gay. “But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn’t extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.”
“I am one-and-twenty,” observed Jack.
“One-and-twenty, ah!” repeated Gay. “Well, I’m not far from the mark.”
“He is certainly extremely youthful-looking and very slightly made,” said Thornhill, who had been attentively studying Sheppard’s countenance. “But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the person to do what he has done. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. Pitt?”
“Certainly, Sir James, certainly,” replied the governor. “Get a chair, Austin.”
While this order was obeyed, Figg, who had been standing near the door, made his way to the prisoner, and offered him his huge hand, which Jack warmly grasped.
“Well, Jack,” said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cut-and-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; “how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Wouldn’t take my advice. Told you how it would be. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. Laughed at me, then. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now.”
“You’re not come here to insult me, Mr. Figg?” said Jack, peevishly.
“Insult you! not I;” returned Figg. “Heard of your escapes. Everybody talking of you. Wished to see you. Old pupil. Capital swordsman. Shortly to be executed. Come to take leave. Trifle useful?” he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack’s hand.
“You are very kind,” said Jack, returning the money; “but I don’t require assistance.”
“Too proud, eh?” rejoined the prize-fighter. “Won’t be under an obligation.”
“There you’re wrong, Mr. Figg,” replied Jack, smiling; “for, before I’m taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you.”
“Have it, and welcome,” rejoined Figg. “Always plenty to spare. Never bought a shirt in my life, Mr. Gay,” he added, turning to the poet. “Sold a good many, though.”
“How do you manage that, Mr. Figg?” asked Gay.
“Thus,” replied the prize-fighter. “Proclaim a public fight. Challenge accepted. Fifty pupils. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. Fifty sent home. All superfine holland. Wear one on the stage on the following day. Cut to pieces—slashed—bloodied. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Offer to return it to each in private. All make the same answer—‘d—n you, keep it.’”
“An ingenious device,” laughed Gay.
Sir James Thornhill’s preparations being completed, Mr. Pitt desired to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and withdrew.
“Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack,” said Sir James. “Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please.”
Sheppard immediately complied with the painter’s request; while Gay and Figg drew back on one side, and Hogarth on the other. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil.
“I’ll make a sketch, too,” he said. “Jack Sheppard’s face is well worth preserving.”
After narrowly examining the countenance of the sitter, and motioning him with his pencil into a particular attitude, Sir James Thornhill commenced operations; and, while he rapidly transferred his lineaments to the canvass, engaged him in conversation, in the course of which he artfully contrived to draw him into a recital of his adventures. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. During the narration Jack’s features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. All the party were greatly interested by Sheppard’s history—especially Figg, who laughed loud and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell.
“We must change the subject,” remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; “this will never do.”
“Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin. “We never suffer him to mention Mr. Wild’s name. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” rejoined Gay.
Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard’s attention.
“And so you’ve given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth.
“That’s scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not.”
“Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.”
“Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you’ll do what no man ever did before.”
A peculiar smile illuminated Jack’s features.
“There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There’s the exact expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don’t move!—Don’t alter a muscle, if you can help it.”
And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.
“I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad! it’s a devilish fine face when lit up.”
“As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill’s shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.”
“The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—“with all the escapes written in it.”
“You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it is like.”
“What do you think of my sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing.
“It’s like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants something here.” And he pointed significantly to the hand.
“I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it.
“It’s better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you’ve given me what I don’t possess.”
“Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don’t see how I can improve it.”
“May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him.
“No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. “I’m never satisfied with a first attempt.”
“Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D’Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.”
“You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack.
“If you’ll write them, I’ll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth.
“An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack’s narrative has suggested. I’ll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. I’ll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.”
“Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope,” interposed Sheppard.
“Certainly not,” replied Gay. “I’ll gibbet the rascal. But I forget,” he added, glancing at Austin; “it’s high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. Wild in his own domain.”
“I hear nothing, Sir,” laughed Austin.
“I was about to add,” continued Gay, “that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. And we’ll see whether it won’t put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the ‘divine’ Farinelli at its head.”
“You’ll do a national service, then,” said Hogarth. “The sums lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. But I’ve an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard’s story. I’ll take two apprentices, and depict their career. One, by perseverance and industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours; while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall eventually arrive at Tyburn.”
“Your’s will be nearer the truth, and have a deeper moral, Mr. Hogarth,” remarked Jack, dejectedly. “But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—”
“Jonathan Wild,” interposed Gay. “I knew it. By the by, Mr. Hogarth, didn’t I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?”
“Me!—no, Sir,” stammered Hogarth, colouring. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him.
“I suppose I was mistaken,” returned Gay. “You’ve been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.”
“A capital caricature that,” remarked Thornhill, laughing. “What does Mr. Kent say to it?”
“He thinks so highly of it, that he says if he had a daughter he would give her to the artist,” answered Gay, a little maliciously.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir James.
“‘Sdeath!” cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “You’ve ruined my hopes.”
“Advanced them rather,” replied Gay, in the same tone. “Miss Thornhill’s a charming girl. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. But, if I were in your place, I know what I’d do—”
“What—what would you do?” asked Hogarth, eagerly.
“Run away with her,” replied Gay.
“Pish!” exclaimed Hogarth. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion.
“Good-b’ye, Jack,” said Figg, putting on his hat. “Rather in the way. Send you the shirt. Here, turnkey. Couple of guineas to drink Captain Sheppard’s speedy escape. Thank him, not me, man. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. If not, keep up your spirits. Die game.”
“Never fear,” replied Jack. “If I get free, I’ll have a bout with you at all weapons. If not, I’ll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.”
“Give you the best I have in either case,” replied Figg. “Good-b’ye!” And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
“I won’t trouble you further, Jack,” he remarked. “I’ve done all I can to the portrait here. I must finish it at home.”
“Permit me to see it, Sir James!” requested Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “What would my poor mother say to it?”
“I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack,” observed Hogarth.
“What of her?” exclaimed Jack, starting up. “Is she dead?”
“No—no,” answered Hogarth. “Don’t alarm yourself. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—”
“A reward!” echoed Jack. “For what?”
“I had the paper with me. ‘Sdeath! what can I have done with it? Oh! here it is,” cried Hogarth, picking it from the ground. “I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. There’s the paragraph. ‘Mrs. Sheppard left Mr. Wood’s house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday’—that’s two days ago,—‘hasn’t been heard of since.’”
“Let me see,” cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement. “Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. “She has fallen into the villain’s hands.”
“What villain?” cried Hogarth.
“Jonathan Wild, I’ll be sworn,” said Gay.
“Right!—right!” cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. “She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot, unable to assist her.”
“I could make a fine sketch of him now,” whispered Hogarth to Gay.
“I told you how it was, Sir James,” said Austin, addressing the knight, who was preparing for his departure, “he attributes every misfortune that befals him to Mr. Wild.”
“And with some justice,” replied Thornhill, drily.
“Allow me to assist you, Sir James,” said Hogarth.
“Many thanks, Sir,” replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; “but Id not require assistance.”
“I tell you what, Jack,” said Gay, “I’ve several urgent engagements this morning; but I’ll return to-morrow, and hear the rest of your story. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.”
“To-morrow will be too late,” said Sheppard, moodily.
The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him.
“You have forgotten your knife, Mr. Hogarth,” he observed, significantly.
“So I have,” replied Hogarth, glancing at Sheppard.
“I can do without it,” muttered Jack.
The door was then locked, and he was left alone.
At three o’clock, on the same day, Austin brought up Jack’s provisions, and, after carefully examining his fetters, and finding all secure, told him if he wanted anything further he must mention it, as he should not be able to return in the evening, his presence being required elsewhere. Jack replied in the negative, and it required all his mastery over himself to prevent the satisfaction which this announcement afforded him from being noticed by the jailer.
With the usual precautions, Austin then departed.
“And now,” cried Jack, leaping up, “for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!”