"My portrait!" echoed Jack. The foremost, tall, clean-shaven, perfectly groomed, half extended his hand with a smile of recognition. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. I should know you—in Heaven or Hell. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. I shall not let you go till I am quite sure. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled. But he tells them that I am a spy. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. He read the Times with an unusually passionate intentness, and then declared suddenly for the earlier of the two trains he used.
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