He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. "I don't know; I really don't know. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. " "Afraid?" "Yes. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless.
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