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It wasn’t. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. " At this juncture, the door opened, and Thames entered the room. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know.
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