" "Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope," interposed Sheppard. ‘What Frenchman would that be, missie? We ain’t let no one escape. ” Brendon hesitated for a moment. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword.
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