“Because I shouldn't like to be out o' the vay ven he arrives,” returned Abraham, in a jeering tone; “it vouldn't be vell bred.” “Vouldn't it!” replied Jack, mimicking his snuffling voice; “then shtay vere you are, and be cursed to you.” “It's all up,” muttered Thames. “Mr. Wood will be intercepted. I've destroyed my only chance.” “Not your _only_ chance, Thames,” returned Jack, in the same undertone; “but your best. Never mind. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. Do you think we could manage that old clothesman between us, if we got out of this box?” “I'd manage him myself, if my arms were free,” replied Thames, boldly. “Shpeak up, vill you?” cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. “I likes to hear vot you says. You _can_ have no shecrets from me.” “Vy don't you talk to your partner, or Saint Giles, if you vant conversation, Aaron?” asked Jack, slyly. “Because they're in the next room, and the door's shut; that's vy, my jack-a-dandy!” replied Abraham, unsuspiciously. “Oh! they are--are they?” muttered Jack, triumphantly; “that'll do. Now for it, Thames! Make as great a row as you can to divert his attention.” With this, he drew the spike from his pocket; and, drowning the sound of the operation by whistling, singing, shuffling, and other noises, contrived, in a few minutes, to liberate his companion from the handcuffs. “Now, Jack,” cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, “you are my friend again. I freely forgive you.” Sheppard cordially returned the pressure; and, cautioning Thames, “not to let the ruffles drop, or they might tell a tale,” began to warble the following fragment of a robber melody:-- “Oh! give me a chisel, a knife, or a file, And the dubsmen shall find that I'll do it in style! _Tol-de-rol!_” “Vot the devil are you about, noisy?” inquired Abraham. “Practising singing, Aaron,” replied Jack. “Vot are you?” “Practising patience,” growled Abraham. “Not before it's needed,” returned Jack, aloud; adding in a whisper, “get upon my shoulders, Thames. Now you're up, take this spike. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,--you don't need to be told _how_. When it's done, I'll push you through. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. _Tol-de-rol!_” As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture.