The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. Wily little devil she is.
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