On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary's carelessness. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. The manager, however, who stood in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced the first few bars of the music. Smith's melody had subsided. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure, blown over. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times.
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