O'Higgins and I landed at Copeley's yesterday; and Mr. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information. It's plain he don't understand our lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;" and as he said this he strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder, propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with a formidable contortion of countenance. "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. You act your part capitally, but it won't do.
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