His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. "Whatever you say—you, behind those stars there, if you are a God. " "He protect you," retorted Blueskin, maliciously; "you haven't a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. The stoppage had materially lessened the distance between him and his pursuers, who now amounted to more than a hundred persons, many of whom carried lanterns and links.
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