The last Meeting between Jack Sheppard and his Mother. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. Take that box, and put it into the carriage yourself. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. .
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