There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. . Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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