I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up.
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