“Well, I do want it.”
“You shall have it, my boy—is it to smash that fellow with, who you mentioned?”
“It is; but mum’s the word. Let me have the cleaver some time before twelve to-night.”
“I’ll give it a sharpen, and bring it you, you may depend.”
“Thank you,” said Britton, “upon my soul I wouldn’t miss using it to-night for a thousand pounds.”
CHAPTER CII.
The Hour of Eleven.—Gray in His Solitary Home.—The Lover’s Watch.—The Eve of the Murder.
The night set in dark and lowering, and heavy masses of black clouds piled themselves up in the southern sky long before the hour appointed by Learmont for the attempt upon the life of Jacob Gray. A cold wind swept round the corner of the streets, and occasionally a dashing shower of rain would sweep horizontally along for a moment, and then cease, as the cloud, from whence sprang the shower, swept onwards on the wings of the wind through the realms of space.
Many of the lamps were extinguished by the sudden gusts of wind, and watchmen wisely betook themselves to their various boxes, comforting their consciences with the conviction that no decent foot-pad or housebreaker had any right to be out on such a disagreeable night.
People who had homes to go to, and warm fire-sides to sit down by, and happy smiling faces to welcome them, hurried through the streets in search of such dear enjoyments, while the poor houseless creatures who had no home—no kind kindred, no friend to warm the heart with a soft cheering smile, crept into old doorways and covered courts, and half-built houses, huddling themselves up with a shiver, to try by the unconsciousness of sleep to forget for awhile their miseries.