“The worst of folly,” replied Blueskin, returning to the table, and taking up a glass; “and, to put an end to it, I shall drink the health of Jack Sheppard, the housebreaker, and success to him in all his enterprises. And now, let's see who'll refuse the pledge.” “_I_ will,” replied Sheppard, dashing the glass from his hand. “Sit down, fool!” “Jack,” said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, “are these regrets for your past life sincere?” “Suppose them so,” rejoined Jack, “what then?” “Nothing--nothing,” stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. “I'm glad to hear it, that's all,” he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. “It won't do to betray the officer,” he muttered. “O lud! what an exquisite box!” cried Edgeworth Bess. “Is it gold?” “Pure gold,” replied Kneebone. “It was given me by poor dear Mrs. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.” “Pray, let me have a pinch!” said Edgeworth Bess, with a captivating glance. “I am so excessively fond of snuff.” The woollen-draper replied by gallantly handing her the box, which was instantly snatched from her by Blueskin, who, after helping himself to as much of its contents as he could conveniently squeeze between his thumb and finger, put it very coolly in his pocket. The action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard. “Restore it,” he cried, in an authoritative voice. “O'ons! Captain,” cried Blueskin, as he grumblingly obeyed the command; “if you've left off business yourself, you needn't interfere with other people.” “I should like a little of that plum-tart,” said Mrs. Maggot; “but I don't see a spoon.” “I'll ring for one,” replied Kneebone, rising accordingly; “but I fear my servants are gone to bed.” Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:-- Once on a time, as I've heard tell. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. _With his foodle doo_! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. _With her foodle doo_! “I've a toast to propose,” cried Sheppard, filling a bumper. “You won't refuse it, Mr. Kneebone?” “He'd better not,” muttered Blueskin. “What is it?” demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. “The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood,” replied Jack. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. _With his foodle doo_! “Peace!” cried Jack. But Blueskin was not to be silenced. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader.