The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. The bridge was open. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. I have been sitting with him ever since.
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