The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Ruth loved him. I don’t want to bother you, of course. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. “To tell you the truth though, I am quite a stranger in London, and it occurred to me that Mr. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair.
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