Smith," observed Wood. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. One or the other. They were those of the Irish watchman. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted into the room.
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