"Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. She entered the room in the shadows. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. ’ ‘That is silly. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. He felt her observance and warmed to it. "I feel like work," he lied.
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