But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. Before it is too late. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily.
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