Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. Fiercely defensive, as usual. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. His number was unlisted and unpublished. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE.
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