ToC Scarcely an hour after the horrible occurrence just related, as Jonathan Wild was seated in the audience-chamber of his residence at the Old Bailey, occupied, like Peachum, (for whose portrait he sat,) with his account-books and registers, he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Quilt Arnold, who announced Jack Sheppard and Blueskin. Truth to tell, more damage had been done in the enthusiastic chase carried out by the militiamen detailed to catch it. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. His name is John. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving.
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