His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. CHAPTER XVIII. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “For me there is no second turn. There's a hundred pounds too much. ” The girl shook her head. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head.
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