ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. You did not find him, but did you find his pistol? In the room beyond the bookroom there—a big room where a table had fallen. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree.
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