CHAPTER I. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. 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. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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