Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "You're on," said O'Higgins. "That's an incorrigible rascal," he added, as Sheppard closed the door; "it's only to-day that I discovered—" "What?" asked Jackson, pricking up his ears. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything about you.
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