In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. "You're inquisitive, young gentleman," replied Jackson, coldly. It is not at all what I expected either. He knew what he knew.
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