Thus died Jack Sheppard. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He cabled to New York: "Probable destination known. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. The next instant, he was launched into eternity! Scarcely had he been turned off a moment, when a man with swarthy features leapt into the cart with an open clasp-knife in his hand, and, before he could be prevented, severed the rope, and cut down the body. "My father!" she whispered. I can’t.
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