. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. . “Annabel;” he moaned. 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. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds collected to obtain a view of him. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now.
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