In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. ‘That piece of information seemed to interest him very much. She saw it, and checked without thinking. " "What should I retract, villain?" cried the woollen-draper, who at the sound of Jack's voice had regained his confidence. .
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