Book One - Chapter 7 Of the Further Puzzling Behavior of Tom Cragg - the Pugilist

Evening had fallen, and I walked along in no very happy frame of
mind, the more so, as the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds
above (through which a watery moon had peeped at fitful intervals)
seemed to presage a wild night. It needed but this to make my
misery the more complete, for, as far as I could tell, if I slept
at all (and I was already very weary), it must, of necessity, be
beneath some hedge or tree.

As I approached the brow of the hill, I suddenly remembered that
I must once more pass the gibbet, and began to strain my eyes for
it. Presently I spied it, sure enough, its grim, gaunt outline
looming through the murk, and instinctively I quickened my stride
so as to pass it as soon as might be.

I was almost abreast of it when a figure rose from beneath it and
slouched into the road to meet me. I stopped there and then, and
grasping my heavy staff waited its approach.

"Be that you, sir?" said a voice, and I recognized the voice of
Tom Cragg.

"What are you doing--and there of all places?"

"Oh--I ain't afeared of 'im," answered Cragg, jerking his thumb
towards the gibbet, "I ain't afeard o' none as ever drawed
breath--dead or livin'--except it be 'is 'Ighness the Prince
Regent."

"And what do you want with me?"