“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. But one must disguise oneself.
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