Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. I hate children. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. But, you see, she HAS to lie up. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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