Wood's habitation in Wych Street, we are luckily enabled to furnish a facsimile) was Jack Sheppard (signature) "I've half a mind to give old Wood the slip, and turn highwayman," cried Jack, as he closed the knife, and put it in his pocket. 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. Twenty-one, twenty-two. There is no further hope. “So very clear and cold,” she said. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run.
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