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"I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. Every one has to make a deal with the world. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. "If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them," observed Hogarth.
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