She laughed. A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. I might have known it. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. " "Well, that's a hopeful sign. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. ‘Soldier of fortune. You’ll have to find someone else. ’ ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. As long as your son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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