Anything it wants it'll take without so much as by your leave, or
with your leave."
"What does it mean, landlord?" asked Bolingbroke.
"Oh's all over Jack Sheppard. The people are mad about the rascal just
because the turnkeys couldn't hold him, nor prison walls for the matter
o' that. He was clever in slipping out o' prison I grant ye. Well, sirs,
his body was to be handed over to the surgeons like the rest o' the
Tyburn gentry, but his friends would have none of it. A bailiff somehow
got hold of the corpse to make money out of it--trust them sharks for
_that_ when they see a chance--an' smuggled it to his house in Long
Acre. It got wind afore many hours was past and the mob broke into the
place, the Foot Guards was called out an' there's been no end of a
rumpus."
"Faith, my poor Gay," said Bolingbroke with a sardonic smile, "the
people make more fuss over a burglar than over a ballad maker. And
what's become of the noble Sheppard's body, landlord?"
"It's hidden somewhere. They say as it'll be buried to-night in St.
Martin's Churchyard. So the people'll get their way after all."
"As they mostly do if they make noise enough," rejoined Bolingbroke
refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.
"Yes, your honour, and----"
The sound of a loud high pitched, strident voice floated into the room
through the open window. Gay, whose eyes had never shifted from the girl
outside, saw her cheeks suddenly blanch.
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