Finding it impossible to descend on any side, without incurring serious risk, Jack resolved to return for his blanket, by the help of which he felt certain of accomplishing a safe landing on the roof of the house in Giltspur Street. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. The major himself told me that this secret passage started upstairs. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith.
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