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. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing. I said to myself at once, ‘Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce. ’ A radiant smile dawned. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age.
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