“Mr. Wood, I command you not to stir,” vociferated the carpenter’s better-half; “recollect you’ll be answerable to me.”

“I declare I don’t know what to do,” said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions.  “Mr. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself.”

“Never!” replied the woollen-draper; “and if that treacherous rascal, by your side, doesn’t make himself scarce quickly, I’ll send a bullet through his brain.”

“My death will lie at your door,” remarked Jackson to the carpenter.

“Show me your warrant!” said Wood, almost driven to his wit’s-end; “perhaps it isn’t regular?”

“Ask him who he is?” suggested Thames.

“A good idea!” exclaimed the carpenter.  “May I beg to know whom I’ve the pleasure of adressing?  Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name.”

“What does it signify?” returned the latter, angrily.

“A great deal!” replied Thames.  “If you won’t disclose your name, I will for you!  You are Jonathan Wild!”

“Further concealment is needless,” answered the other, pulling off his wig and black patch, and resuming his natural tone of voice; “I am Jonathan Wild!”

“Say you so!” rejoined Kneebone; “then be this your passport to eternity.”

Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan.

“I might now send you on a similar journey!” replied Jonathan, with a bitter smile, and preserving the unmoved demeanour he had maintained throughout; “but I prefer conveying you, in the first instance, to Newgate.  The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.”

So saying, he sprang, with a bound like that of a tiger-cat, against the throat of the woollen-draper.  And so sudden and well-directed was the assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist.

“Lend a hand with the ruffles, Blueskin!” he shouted, as that personage, who had just recovered from the stunning effects of the blow, contrived to pick himself up.  “Look quick, d—­n you, or we shall never master him!”

“Murder!” shrieked Mrs. Wood, at the top of her voice.

“Here’s a pistol!” cried Thames, darting towards the undischarged weapon dropped by Blueskin in the scuffle, and pointing it at Jonathan.  “Shall I shoot him?”

“Yes! yes! put it to his ear!” cried Mrs. Wood; “that’s the surest way!”

“No! no! give it me!” vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and rushing to the door, against which he placed his back.

“I’ll soon settle this business.  Jonathan Wild!” he added, in a loud voice, “I command you to release your prisoner.”

“So I will,” replied Jonathan, who, with Blueskin’s aid, had succeeded in slipping a pair of handcuffs over the woollen-draper’s wrists, “when I’ve Mr. Walpole’s order to that effect—­but not before.”

“You’ll take the consequences, then?”