All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. " "Ha!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting, "is he so highly born?" "This letter will inform you," replied Wild, placing a document in his hand. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. "There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan.
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