“Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. I don’t care! I’m glad I did. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. His mirth, however, received an unpleasant check; for Abraham, greatly incensed by his previous conduct, caught him by the legs, and pushed him with such violence into the hole that the point of the spike, which he had placed in his pocket, found its way through his clothes to the flesh, inflicting a slight, but painful wound.
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