“Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin.  “We never suffer him to mention Mr. Wild’s name.  He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” rejoined Gay.

Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard’s attention.

“And so you’ve given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth.

“That’s scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack.  “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—­I have not.”

“Well said, Jack,” cried Figg.  “Never give in.”

“Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you’ll do what no man ever did before.”

A peculiar smile illuminated Jack’s features.

“There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly.  “There’s the exact expression I want.  For the love of Heaven, Jack, don’t move!—­Don’t alter a muscle, if you can help it.”

And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.

“I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil.  “Gad! it’s a devilish fine face when lit up.”

“As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill’s shoulder at the portrait.  “As like as life.”

“The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—­“with all the escapes written in it.”

“You flatter me,” smiled Sir James.  “But, I own, I think it is like.”

“What do you think of my sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing.

“It’s like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard.  “But it wants something here.”  And he pointed significantly to the hand.

“I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture.  “Will that do?” he added, returning it.

“It’s better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly.  “But you’ve given me what I don’t possess.”

“Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him.  “I don’t see how I can improve it.”

“May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him.

“No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch.  “I’m never satisfied with a first attempt.”

“Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures.  They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D’Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—­and far more instructive.”

“You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack.

“If you’ll write them, I’ll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth.

“An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack’s narrative has suggested.  I’ll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan.  I’ll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.”