IN WHAT WAY MR. JEREMIAH ESCAPES; AND WHAT HE FINDS IN THE STREET.
A most beautiful moonlight began at this juncture to throw its beams in
the prison, when Mr. Schnackenberger, starting up from his sleepless
couch, for pure rage, seized upon the iron bars of his window, and shook
them with a fervent prayer, that instead of bars it had pleased God to
put Mr. Mayor within his grasp. To his infinite astonishment, the bars
were more obedient to his wrath than could have been expected. One shake
more, and like a row of carious teeth they were all in Mr.
Schnackenberger's hand.
It may be supposed that Mr. Schnackenberger lost no time in using his
good fortune; indeed, a very slight jump would suffice to place him at
liberty. Accordingly, when the sentinel had retired to a little
distance, he flung his dreadnought out of the window--leaped upon
it--and stood without injury on the outside of the prison.
'Who goes there?' cried the alarmed sentinel, coyly approaching the spot
from which the noise issued.
'Nobody,' said the fugitive: and by way of answer to the
challenge--'Speak, or I must fire'--which tremulously issued from the
lips of the city hero, Mr. Schnackenberger, gathering up his
dreadnought to his breast, said in a hollow voice, 'Fellow, thou art a
dead man.'
Straightway the armed man fell upon his knees before him, and cried
out--'ah! gracious Sir! have mercy upon me. I am a poor wig-maker; and a
bad trade it is; and I petitioned his worship, and have done for this
many a year, to be taken into the city guard; and yesterday I passed--'
'Passed what?'
'Passed my examination, your honour:--his worship put me through the
manual exercise: and I was 'triculated into the corps. It would be a sad
thing, your honour, to lose my life the very next day after I was
'triculated.'
'Well,' said Mr. Jeremiah, who with much ado forbore laughing
immoderately, 'for this once I shall spare your life: but then
remember--not a word, no sound or syllable.'
'Not one, your honour, I vow to heaven.'
'And down upon the spot deliver me your coat, side arms, and hat.'
But the martial wig-maker protested that, being already ill of a cold,
he should, without all doubt, perish if he were to keep guard in his
shirt-sleeves.
'Well, in that case, this dreadnought will be a capital article: allow
me to prescribe it--it's an excellent sudorific.'
Necessity has no law: and so, to save his life, the city hero, after
some little struggle, submitted to this unusual exchange.
'Very good!' said Mr. Schnackenberger, as the warrior in the
dreadnought, after mounting his round hat, again shouldered his
musket:--'Now, good-night;' and so saying, he hastened off to the
residence of the Mayor.