Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. Wood, sharply. At least I can give you a glimmer. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob round it—thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. I did think it could be done.
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