“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. ‘It will suit me very well that you go away, because you are a person without sense and I do not wish to talk to you. Anyone else who finds out must be killed, otherwise, you insure death or worse for us.
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