He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. When he arrived at Hoxton, he found the walls covered with placards offering a reward for his apprehension, and he everywhere appeared to be the general subject of conversation. The class laughed, a few putting their hands to their foreheads in a military salute to mock her. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England.
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