"That's the chap that killed the old man--him with the big chops," said the red-shirted individual to his numerous red and other shirted friends about.
"What! that fat cuss with the pig eyes?"
"Zackly!"
"He's the puffick image of his portrait in the--Weekly, isn't he?"
"Like as two peas."
There was truth in this; for the artist who sketched the portraits, had inadvertently placed Marcus's name under Matthew's portrait, and vice versa.
"Well," said another man, an expert in human nature, "I'd convict that fellow of murder any time, on the strength of his looks. Never were the worst passions of our nature more prominently shown than in that bad face." Having said which, the speaker looked about for somebody to contradict him, and was disappointed in finding no one.
Marcus Wilkeson said: "Here, Matt, none of that generous nonsense, if you please. I am the prisoner, my good people." As Marcus spoke, he stretched forward, and exhibited his face to the gaze of the red-shirted querist and his companions.
"No, you don't!" said that fiery leader. "This blubbery chap is the one. We knows him by his picter."
"No use disputing them, Mark," said Maltboy, with his indomitable smile.