"There!" exclaimed Smithers; "I shall make something of you at last. What virtue there must be in an old bit of leather: it seems to put the right spirit into _you_, at all events. Well, that's all you shall do this morning down at Newgate; and mind and do it as if the thong was hanging over your head—or it will be all the worse for you when we get home. Try and keep up the credit of your father's name, and show the Sheriffs and the Chaplain how you can truss their pigeon for them. They always take great notice—they do. Last time there was an execution, the Chaplain says to me, says he, '_Smithers, I don't think you had your hand nicely in this morning?_'—'_Don't you, sir?_' says I.—'_No_,' says he; '_I've seen you do it more genteel than that._'—'_Well, sir_,' says I, '_I'll do my best to please you next time_.'—'_Ah! do, there's a good fellow, Smithers_,' says the Chaplain; and off he goes to breakfast with the Sheriffs and governor, a-smacking his lips at the idea of the cold fowl and ham that he meant to pitch into. But I only mention that anecdote, to show you how close the authorities take notice—that's all. So mind and do your best, boy." "Yes, father," returned Gibbet. "So now we've done the pinioning," continued Smithers, once more busying himself with the puppet, which he surveyed with an admiration almost amounting to a kind of love. "Well, we can suppose that our chap has marched from the cell, and has just got on the scaffold. So far, so good. We can't do better than polish him off decently now that he _is_ here," proceeded Smithers, alluding to the figure, and rather musing aloud than addressing himself to his son. "Now all we've got to do is to imagine that the bell's a-ringing:—there stands the parson, reading the funeral service. Here I am. I take the halter that's already tied nicely round the poor devil's neck—I fix the loop on this hook that hangs down from the beam of the gibbet—then I leave the scaffold—I go underneath—I pull the bolt—and down he falls so!" "O God!" cried Gibbet, literally writhing with mental agony, as the drop fell with a crashing sound, and the jerking noise of the halter met his ear a moment afterwards. "Now, then, coward!" exclaimed the executioner; and again the leathern thong elicited horrible screams from the hump-back. The lad was still crying, and his father was in the midst of sundry fearful anathemas, levelled against what he called his son's cowardice, when a knock was heard at the door of the loft. "Come in!" shouted the executioner. The invitation was obeyed; and an elderly man, dressed in a shabby suit of black, entered the room with an affected solemnity of gait. CHAPTER CXLIII. MORBID FEELINGS.—KATHERINE. "Holloa, Banks!" exclaimed the executioner. "Got scent of the morning's work—eh, old feller?"