Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. “My Mom was a good lady. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. And catching hold of Thames, he quitted the deck. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. If not, keep up your spirits.
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