"Well, I've seen many a gallant fellow in my time, Mr. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard."
"Nor I," returned Ireton, following his example: "and I've had some experience too. Ever since he came here, three months ago, he has been the life and soul of the place; and now the death warrant has arrived, instead of being cast down, as most men would be, and as all others are, he's gayer than ever. Well, I shall be sorry to lose him, Mr. Griffin. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day."
"No more!" cried Griffin, incredulously; "I should have thought you must have made double that sum at least."
"Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. I took the money myself, and ought to know."
"Oh! certainly," answered Griffin; "certainly."
"I offered Jack five guineas as his share," continued Ireton; "but he wouldn't take it himself, and gave it to the poor debtors and felons, who are now drinking it out in the cellar on the Common Side."
"Jack's a noble fellow," exclaimed the head-jailer of Clerkenwell Prison, raising his glass; "and, though he played me a scurvy trick, I'll drink to his speedy deliverance."
"At Tyburn, eh, Mr. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. "I'll pledge you in that toast with all my heart."
"Well, for my part," observed Mrs. Spurling, "I hope he may never see Tyburn. And, if I'd my own way with the Secretary of State, he never should. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged."
"Bah!" ejaculated Marvel, gruffly.