‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. 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. you walking home?\" 3 She paused, stunned. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive.
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