"No," replied Jonathan, moodily. The hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were required to preserve order. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. Hang the wench! Roding was right. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. And then they disgorged. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party.
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