Jack himself carried it off bravely, and, indeed, insolently. "I know no more of the matter than you do," he replied to Sir John Fielding, and added impudently, "nor half so much, neither."
The prosecution, on some technicality, broke down, and the pair were released. They celebrated the happy occasion by dining extravagantly and then spending the evening at Vauxhall, where Rann was the gayest of the gay, and returned home with two watches and three purses.
An absurd burglary charge brought him into the dock again, that July. The watch discovered him half-way through the window of a house in which lodged one Doll Frampton, and not only hauled him out, but marched him off to prison; but it appeared that he was only keeping an appointment to supper with the weary Doll, who, tired of waiting for him, had gone to bed. The Bench, assured of as much by the shameless minx herself, dismissed the charge, and, in addition to some pertinent remarks about this unconventional method of entry, gave him some excellent advice on conduct. Although Rann had escaped so far, Sir John Fielding said, his profession was perfectly well known, and he urged the prisoner to leave his evil courses while yet there was time.
So far from paying attention to this well-meant discourse, Rann put in an appearance the next Sunday, not with Doll, but with Ellen, at Bagnigge Wells, then a famous place for dining and drinking. They drove thither in a carriage and dressed—in the slang phrase—"up to the nines." Jack was splendid in a scarlet coat, tambour waistcoat, white silk stockings, and a laced hat. Of course there flew at his knees the already famous sixteen strings.
JACK RANN.
He was by nature boastful, and when the drink was in him bragged without restraint or ordinary prudence. On this occasion he drank freely, and, with an oath, declared himself a highwayman. Rather more of a pickpocket, perhaps. The company trembled: some sought the way out. "No fear, my friends," quoth he, "this is a holiday." Then he fell to quarrelling, and presently lost a ring from his finger, and declared those present had stolen it. Then again his mood changed. "'Tis no matter," he exclaimed; "'tis but a hundred guineas gone, and one evening's work will replace it." Then, growing more drunken and incapable, they threw him out, and he was not in a fit condition to resist. So, Ellen—the gentle Ellen—scratching the faces of the foremost, as they were put out, they drove back to their lodgings near Covent Garden.
"Fine treatment for a gentleman!" he hiccupped; and indeed a gentleman he considered himself. But his highwayman's takings, large though they occasionally were, did not keep pace with his gentlemanly expenses. Debts accumulated, and sheriff's officers dogged his footsteps. He was arrested for a debt of £50, and thrown into the Marshalsea prison; but so much of a hero had he already become among those of his calling that they clubbed together and liquidated the debt; and handsome Jack was again free.
The sheriff's officers he affected to regard as low, churlish fellows, but they would not be denied. His creditors were soon after him again, and he was arrested when drinking in an alehouse in the then suburban Tottenham Court Road. He shrank with horror from the touch of the two "vulgar" bailiffs, but there was little help for it. He must pay up, or be taken up. His drinking-companions found between them three guineas, and he gave up his watch. Together, these involuntary contributions made up more than the amount due. The bailiffs, on their part, agreed to refund the balance when Rann was sufficiently in funds to redeem the ticker; and cordiality then reigned. "Lend me five shillings," said Rann to the bailiffs, "and I will treat you to a bowl of punch." They fell in with the proposal, and a merry carouse ensued. Such were the manners and customs of about a hundred and forty years ago.