His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He had no wish to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. “You say that he is alive. "But to the point," continued Wild, unconscious of the peril in which the remark had placed him,—"to the point. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. “I do,” Anna answered. Earles, but it is a good one.
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