He was interrupted by a deafening roar--hoarse, shrill, raucous,
unmistakably drunken. A huge, ragged multitude had poured into the High
Street from St. Martin's Lane, jostling, fighting, cursing, eager for
devilment, no matter what. They rushed to the hostelries, they
surrounded the street sellers of gin, demanding the fiery poisonous
stuff for which they had no intention of paying.

The landlord of the "Maiden Head" hurried into the room somewhat
perturbed.

"Best shut the window, gentlemen," said he. "This vile scum's none too
nice. Anything it wants it'll take without so much as by your leave, or
with your leave."

"What does it mean, landlord?" asked Bolingbroke.

"Oh's all over Jack Sheppard. The people are mad about the rascal just
because the turnkeys couldn't hold him, nor prison walls for the matter
o' that. He was clever in slipping out o' prison I grant ye. Well, sirs,
his body was to be handed over to the surgeons like the rest o' the
Tyburn gentry, but his friends would have none of it. A bailiff somehow
got hold of the corpse to make money out of it--trust them sharks for
_that_ when they see a chance--an' smuggled it to his house in Long
Acre. It got wind afore many hours was past and the mob broke into the
place, the Foot Guards was called out an' there's been no end of a
rumpus."

"Faith, my poor Gay," said Bolingbroke with a sardonic smile, "the
people make more fuss over a burglar than over a ballad maker. And
what's become of the noble Sheppard's body, landlord?"