But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. I'll turn cracksman, like my father—rob old Wood—he has chests full of money, and I know where they're kept—I'll rob him, and give the swag to you, Poll—I'll—" Jack would have said more; but, losing his balance, he fell to the ground, and, when taken up, he was perfectly insensible. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. "Whist!" exclaimed Terence; "he elevates his glim. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. If you’ve got anything to say, you must say it to your aunt—” “But look here, daddy!” He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
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