" Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. I can smell you. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. We must never let your father know we went.
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