“Ay—ay,” laughed Jonathan. “The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. So get up, and let's be off.”
“Before I leave this place, I must see my mother.”
“Nonsense,” returned Jonathan gruffly. “Would you expose yourself to fresh risk? If it hadn't been for her you wouldn't have been placed in your late jeopardy.”
“I don't care for that,” replied Jack. “See her I will. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day.”
“Nay, if you're bent upon this folly,” observed Wild, who appeared to have his own reasons for humouring the lad, “I shan't hinder you. Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I'll go with you.”
So saying, he dismounted; and flinging his bridle to his companion, and ordering him to ride off to a little distance, he followed Jack, who had quitted the main road, and struck into a narrow path opposite the cage. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile.
“There's the house,” said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Don't hurry yourself,” said Jonathan, “I'll wait for you here.”