LITMIR.BIZ

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lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised — this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?”

      Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.

      Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.

      “This ain’t true, surely?” asked the perplexed Magus.

      “He has said it,” replied Luke; “I may not deny it.”

      This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.

      “Sir Luke Rookwood!” cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. “Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity.”

      Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.

      Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin’s promise of a song.

      “True, true,” replied Dick; “I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties.”

      THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY

Now Oliver78 puts his black nightcap on, And every star its glim79 is hiding, And forth to the heath is the scampsman80 gone, His matchless cherry-black81 prancer riding; Merrily over the common he flies, Fast and free as the rush of rocket, His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes, His tol82 by his side, and his pops83 in his pocket.

      CHORUS

Then who can name So merry a game, As the game of all games — high toby?84

      The traveller hears him, away! away!

       Over the wide wide heath he scurries;

       He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,

       But ever the faster and faster he hurries.

       But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit?

       He is caught — he must “stand and deliver;"

Then out with the dummy85, and off with the bit,86 Oh! the game of high toby for ever!

      CHORUS

      Then who can name So merry a game, As the game of all games — high toby?

      Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,

       To compare with the game of high toby;

       No rapture can equal the tobyman’s joys,

To blue devils, blue plumbs87 give the go-by; And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap!88 Even rack punch has some bitter in it, For the mare-with-three-legs89, boys, I care not a rap, ’Twill be over in less than a minute.

      GRAND CHORUS

      Then hip, hurrah! Fling care away! Hurrah for the game of high toby!

      “And now, pals,” said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these morning cups, “I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave. Adieu!”

      And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.

      At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination.

      “I tell you what, Sir Luke,” said he; “I should like to do a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But one ought not to throw away one’s luck, you know — there is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or else —— no matter! Your old dad, Sir Piers — God help him! — had the gingerbread, that I know; he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won’t feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and besides, there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the reg’lars. All this considered, you can’t complain, I think if I ask five thousand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much.”

      “I will not talk to you of fairness,” said Luke; “I will not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms.”

      “Oh, no,” replied Dick, “it’s quite optional; Lady Rookwood will give as much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass! What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion? — Ha! carriage-wheels in the distance! that jade knows the sound as well as I do. I’ll just see what it’s like! — you will have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing here?”

      At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hill-side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed after it.

      In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow.

      “May the devil break his neck!” cried Peter, as he saw him dash through the brook; “could he not let them alone?”

      “This must not be,” said Luke; “know you whose carriage it is?”

      “It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your eyes,” returned Peter; “haste, and arrest the spoiler’s hand.”

      “Whom do you mean?” asked Luke.

      “Eleanor Mowbray,” replied Peter. “She is there. To the rescue — away.”

      “Eleanor Mowbray!” echoed Luke —“and Sybil? ——”

      At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.

      “Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?” cried Peter, with a bitter look. “You are not what I took you for.”

      Luke

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