In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished ‘object lessons’ in English history for its children — namely, the livid and decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its gateways.

But we digress.

Hendon’s lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said —

“So, thou’rt come at last! Thou’lt not escape again, I warrant thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou’lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap,” — and John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.

Miles Hendon stepped in the way and said —