Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard’s attention.
“And so you’ve given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth.
“That’s scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild — I have not.”
“Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.”
“Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you’ll do what no man ever did before.”
A peculiar smile illuminated Jack’s features.
“There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There’s the exact expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don’t move! — Don’t alter a muscle, if you can help it.”
And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.
“I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad! it’s a devilish fine face when lit up.”
“As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill’s shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.”
“The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it; —“with all the escapes written in it.”
“You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it is like.”
“What do you think of my sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing.
“It’s like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants something here.” And he pointed significantly to the hand.
“I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it.
“It’s better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you’ve given me what I don’t possess.”
“Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don’t see how I can improve it.”
“May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him.
“No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. “I’m never satisfied with a first attempt.”
“Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D’Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues — and far more instructive.”
“You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack.
“If you’ll write them, I’ll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth.
“An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack’s narrative has suggested. I’ll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. I’ll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.”
“Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope,” interposed Sheppard.
“Certainly not,” replied Gay. “I’ll gibbet the rascal. But I forget,” he added, glancing at Austin; “it’s high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. Wild in his own domain.”
“I hear nothing, Sir,” laughed Austin.
“I was about to add,” continued Gay, “that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. And we’ll see whether it won’t put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the ‘divine’ Farinelli at its head.”
“You’ll do a national service, then,” said Hogarth. “The sums lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. But I’ve an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard’s story. I’ll take two apprentices, and depict their career. One, by perseverance and industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours; while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall eventually arrive at Tyburn.”
“Your’s will be nearer the truth, and have a deeper moral, Mr. Hogarth,” remarked Jack, dejectedly. “But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of —”
“Jonathan Wild,” interposed Gay. “I knew it. By the by, Mr. Hogarth, didn’t I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?”
“Me! — no, Sir,” stammered Hogarth, colouring. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him.
“I suppose I was mistaken,” returned Gay. “You’ve been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.”
“A capital caricature that,” remarked Thornhill, laughing. “What does Mr. Kent say to it?”
“He thinks so highly of it, that he says if he had a daughter he would give her to the artist,” answered Gay, a little maliciously.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir James.
“‘Sdeath!” cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “You’ve ruined my hopes.”
“Advanced them rather,” replied Gay, in the same tone. “Miss Thornhill’s a charming girl. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. But, if I were in your place, I know what I’d do —”
“What — what would you do?” asked Hogarth, eagerly.
“Run away with her,” replied Gay.
“Pish!” exclaimed Hogarth. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion.
“Good-b’ye, Jack,” said Figg, putting on his hat. “Rather in the way. Send you the shirt. Here, turnkey. Couple of guineas to drink Captain Sheppard’s speedy escape. Thank him, not me, man. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. If not, keep up your spirits. Die game.”
“Never fear,” replied Jack. “If I get free, I’ll have a bout with you at all weapons. If not, I’ll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.”
“Give you the best I have in either case,” replied Figg. “Good-b’ye!” And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
“I won’t trouble you further, Jack,” he remarked. “I’ve done all I can to the portrait here. I must finish it at home.”
“Permit me to see it, Sir James!” requested Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “What would my poor mother say to it?”
“I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack,”
