'And yet he was not always in a mad humour; in fact, Sixteen-String
Jack, for all his gaiety, was a proud, melancholy man. The shadow of the
tree was always upon him, and he would make me miserable by talking of
his certain doom. "I have a hundred pounds in my pocket," he would say;
"I shall spend that, and then I shan't last long." And though I never
thought him serious, his prophecy came true enough. Only a few
months before the end we had visited Tyburn together. With his usual
carelessness, he passed the line of constables who were on guard.
"It is very proper," said he, in his jauntiest tone, "that I should be a
spectator on this melancholy occasion." And though none of the dullards
took his jest, they instantly made way for him. For my Jack was always
a gentleman, though he was bred to the stable, and his bitterest enemy
could not have denied that he was handsome. His open countenance was
as honest as the day, and the brown curls over his forehead were more
elegant than the smartest wig. Wherever he went the world did him
honour, and many a time my vanity was sorely wounded. I was a pretty
girl, mind you, though my travels have not improved my beauty; and I had
many admirers before ever I picked up Jack Rann at a masquerade. Why,
there was a Templar, with two thousand a year, who gave me a carriage
and servants while I still lived at the dressmaker's in Oxford Street,
and I was not out of my teens when the old Jew in St. Mary Axe took me
into keeping.
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