They must see the prisoner at the hatch. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. Charley Pevenill was our host. He turned to Mrs.
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