Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Jonathan Wild, at this time, was on the high-road to the greatness which he subsequently, and not long afterwards, obtained.
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