"Very well, Mr. Slipshod; follow me." And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth.
"Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt.
"Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. "He ought to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs."
"Indeed!" said Shotbolt. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet.
"Under the table. The cloth nearly touches the floor. Give me your staff. It'll be in your way."
"Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him," hesitated the jailer.
"Suppose he does. In that case I'll help you. We shall be equally matched. You're not afraid, Mr. Shoplatch."
"Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff. Am I quite hidden?"
"Not quite;—keep your feet in. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. I'll stamp twice when we've done."
"I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture," cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. "If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share—say a fourth—provided you lend a helping hand."