“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness. She felt his crotch through his jeans. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday.
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