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Jonathan Wild, meanwhile, had quitted the house. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. As soon as he had delivered his instructions to Quilt, who, with Abraham, constituted his body-guard, or janizaries, as he termed them, Jonathan mounted his steed, and rode off at a gallop. Quilt was not long in following his example. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles’s. Stimulated by the promise of something handsome to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in the management of his lazy cattle. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street — a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow’s famous Survey, “as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in London.” Neither of the parties outside bestowed much attention upon these stately and salubriously-situated mansions; indeed, as it was now not far from ten o’clock, and quite dark, they could scarcely discern them. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. The coachman answered by a surly grunt, and, plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his course down Dyot Street; traversed that part of Holborn, which is now called Broad Street, and where two ancient alms-houses were, then, standing in the middle of that great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the opening of Compston Street; and, diving under a wide gateway on the left, soon reached a more open space, surrounded by mean habitations, coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick Yard, at the further end of which Saint Giles’s round-house was situated.

No sooner did the vehicle turn the corner of this yard, than Quilt became aware, from the tumultuous sounds that reached his ears, as well as from the flashing of various lanterns at the door of the round-house, that some disturbance was going on; and, apprehensive of a rescue, if he drew up in the midst of the mob, he thought it prudent to come to a halt. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. Here, might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm.

“So, the Mohocks have been at work, I perceive,” remarked Quilt, as he drew near the group.

“‘Faith, an’ you may say that,” returned a watchman, who was wiping a ruddy stream from his brow; “they’ve broken the paice, and our pates into the bargain. But shurely I’d know that vice,” he added, turning his lantern towards the janizary. “Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the powers! I’m glad to see you. The sight o’ your ‘andsome phiz allys does me good.”

“I wish I could return the compliment, Terry. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. How came you by the hurt, eh?”

“How did I come by it? — that’s a nate question. Why, honestly enouch. It was lent me by a countryman o’ mine; but I paid him back in his own coin — ha! ha!”

“A countryman of yours, Terry?”

“Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt — more’s the pity! You’ve heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?”

“Of course; who has not? He’s the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!”

“That’s him to a hair?” cried Terence, rapturously. “Och! he’s a broth of a boy!”

“Why, I thought he’d broken your head, Terry?”

“Phooh! that’s nothing? A piece o’ plaster’ll set all to rights; and Terry O’Flaherty’s not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Besides, didn’t I tell you that I giv’ him as good as he brought — and better! I jist touched him with my ‘Evenin’ Star,’ as I call this shillelah,” said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared to be loaded with lead, “and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum’d like a bullock.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Quilt, “did you kill him?”

“Not quite,” replied Terence, laughing; “but I brought him to his senses.”

“By depriving him of ’em, eh! But I’m sorry you hurt his lordship, Terry. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that’s sufficient. What more could any reasonable man — especially a watchman — desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. There’s not his peer among the peerage.”

“Och! if he’s a friend o’ yours, my dear joy, there’s no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan’-‘ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I’d be afther givin’ him another.”

“Well, well — wait awhile,” returned Quilt; “his lordship won’t forget you. He’s as generous as he’s frolicsome.”

As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.

“There’s Sharples,” cried Quilt.

“Whist!” exclaimed Terence; “he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he’s about to spake to us.”

“Gem’men o’ the votch!” cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, “my noble pris’ner — ough! ough; — the Markis o’ Slaughterford ——”

Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night.

“No Mohocks! No Scourers!” cried the mob.

“Hear! hear!” vociferated Quilt.

“His lordship desires me to say — ough! ough!”

Fresh groans and hisses.

“Von’t you hear me? — ough! ough!” demanded Sharples, after a pause.

“By all means,” rejoined Quilt.

“Raise your vice, and lave off coughin’,” added Terence.

“The long and the short o’ the matter’s this then,” returned Sharples with dignity, “the Markis begs your acceptance o’ ten guineas to drink his health.”

The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers.

“And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state,” proceeded Sharples, in a hoarse tone, “that he’ll be responsible for the doctors’ bill of all such gem’men as have received broken pates, or been otherwise damaged in the fray — ough! ough!”

“Hurrah!” shouted the mob.

“We’re all damaged — we’ve all got broken pates,” cried a dozen voices.

“Ay, good luck to him! so we have,” rejoined Terence; “but we’ve no objection to take out the dochter’s bill in drink.”

“None whatever,” replied the mob.

“Your answer, gem’men?” demanded Sharples.

“Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal,” responded the mob.

“Long life to the Marquis!” reiterated Terence; “he’s an honour to ould Ireland!”

“Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” remarked Quilt.

“Troth, and so did you,” returned the watchman; “but I couldn’t belave it. In futur’, I’ll keep the ‘Evenin’ Star’ for his lordship’s enemies.”

“You’d better,” replied Quilt. “But bring your glim this way. I’ve a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples’s care.”

“Be handy, then,” rejoined Terence, “or, I’ll lose my share of the smart money.”

With the assistance of Terence, and a linkboy who volunteered his services, Quilt soon removed the prisoners from the coach, and leaving Sheppard to the custody of Abraham, proceeded to drag Thames towards the round-house. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. Whenever Jack attempted to speak, he was checked by an angry growl from Abraham; and Thames, though his heart was full almost to bursting, felt no inclination to break the silence. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. But his grief was of short duration. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way.

While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put entire faith in Jonathan’s threat of sending him to the round-house, and apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles’s church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. He recognised this object at once. Jonathan had not deceived him.

“What’s this here kinchen in for?” asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them.

“What for?” rejoined Quilt, evasively.

“Oh! nothin’ partickler — mere curossity,” replied Terence. “By the powers!” he added, turning his lantern full upon the face of the captive, “he’s a nice genn-teel-lookin’ kiddy, I must say. Pity he’s ta’en to bad ways so airly.”

“You may spare me your compassion, friend,” observed Thames; “I am falsely detained.”

“Of course,” rejoined Quilt, maliciously; “every thief is so. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. We never supposed you helped yourself to a picture set with diamonds — not we!”

“Is the guv’ner consarned in this job?” asked Terence, in a whisper.

“He is,” returned Quilt, significantly. “Zounds! what’s that!” he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. “The other kid’s given my partner the slip. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter than old Nab’s.” And, committing Thames to the care of the watchman, he darted after the fugitive.

“Do you wish to earn a rich reward, my good friend?” said Thames to the watchman, as soon as they were left alone.

“Is it by lettin’ you go, my darlin’, that I’m to airn it?” inquired Terence. “If so, it won’t pay. You’re Mister Wild’s pris’ner, and worse luck to it!”

“I don’t ask you to liberate me,” urged Thames; “but will you convey a message for me?”

“Where to, honey?”

“To Mr. Wood’s, the carpenter in Wych Street. He lives near the Black Lion.”

“The Black Lion!” echoed Terence. “I know the house well; by the same token that it’s a flash crib. Och! many a mug o’ bubb have I drained wi’ the landlord, Joe Hind. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?”

“He does,” replied Thames. “Tell him that I— his adopted son, Thames Darrell — am detained here by Jonathan Wild.”

“Thames Ditton — is that your name?”

“No,” replied the boy, impatiently; “Darrell — Thames Darrell.”

“I’ll not forget it. It’s a mighty quare ’un, though. I never yet heard of a Christians as was named after the Shannon or the Liffy; and the Thames is no better than a dhurty puddle, compared wi’ them two noble strames. But then you’re an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. People do call their unlawful children strange names. Are you quite shure you haven’t another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?”

“Darrell, I tell you. Will you go? You’ll be paid handsomely for your trouble.”

“I don’t mind the throuble,” hesitated Terence, who was really a good-hearted fellow at the bottom; “and I’d like to sarve you if I could, for you look like a gentleman’s son, and that goes a great way wi’ me. But if Misther Wild were to find out that I thwarted his schames ——”

“I’d not be in your skin for a trifle,” interrupted Quilt, who having secured Sheppard, and delivered him to Abraham, now approached them unawares; “and it shan’t be my fault if he don’t hear of it.”

“‘Ouns!” ejaculated Terence, in alarm, “would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?”

“Ay, if he plays a-cross,” returned Quilt. “Come along, my sly shaver. With all your cunning, we’re more than a match for you.”

“But not for me,” growled Terence, in an under tone.

“Remember!” cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along.

“Remember the devil!” retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. “Do you think I’m afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. Master Thames Ditton, I’ll do your biddin’; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you.”

“Dog!” exclaimed Quilt, turning fiercely upon him, “do you threaten?”

But the watchman eluded his grasp, and, mingling with the crowd, disappeared.