"Dog!" cried Wild, freeing himself by a powerful effort, and dealing Jack a violent blow with the heavy bludgeon, which knocked him backwards, "you are not yet a match for Jonathan Wild. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. Give me the chisel, Blueskin.
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