Turpin was a popular hero long before Ainsworth sent him rattling across
England. And in order to equip this butcher with a false reputation,
a valiant officer and gentleman was stripped of the credit due to
a magnificent achievement. For though Turpin tramped to York at a
journeyman's leisure, Nicks rode thither at a stretch--Nicks the
intrepid and gallant, whom Charles II., in admiration of his feat, was
wont to call Swiftnicks.

This valiant collector, whom posterity has robbed for Turpin's
embellishment, lived at the highest moment of his art. He knew by rote
the lessons taught by Hind and Duval; he was a fearless rider and a
courteous thief. Now, one morning at five of the clock, he robbed a
gentleman near Barnet of L560, and riding straight for York, he appeared
on the Bowling Green at six in the evening. Being presently recognised
by his victim, he was apprehended, and at the trial which followed he
pleaded a triumphant alibi. But vanity was too strong for discretion,
and no sooner was Swiftnicks out of danger, than he boasted, as well he
might, of his splendid courage. Forthwith he appeared a popular hero,
obtained a commission in Lord Moncastle's regiment, and married a
fortune. And then came Turpin to filch his glory! Nor need Turpin have
stooped to a vicarious notoriety, for he possessed a certain rough, half
conscious humour, which was not despicable. He purchased a new fustian
coat and a pair of pumps, in which to be hanged, and he hired five poor
men at ten shillings the day, that his death might not go unmourned.
Above all, he was distinguished in prison. A crowd thronged his cell
to identify him, and one there was who offered to bet the keeper half a
guinea that the prisoner was not Turpin; whereupon Turpin whispered the
keeper, 'Lay him the wager, you fool, and I will go you halves.' Surely
this impudent indifference might have kept green the memory of the man
who never rode to York!

If the Scoundrel may claim distinction on many grounds, his character
is singularly uniform. To the anthropologist he might well appear
the survival of a savage race, and savage also are his manifold
superstitions. He is a creature of times and seasons. He chooses the
occasion of his deeds with as scrupulous a care as he examines his
formidable crowbars and jemmies. At certain hours he would refrain from
action, though every circumstance favoured his success: he would rather
obey the restraining voice of a wise, unreasoni