“Go it, miss!” cried one. Jonathan Wild. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. They both listened intently. She shuddered.
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