"Splendid! and as good as done," triumphantly exclaimed the nephew,
snapping his fingers, and prancing with glee;--"a glorious fancy! bless
my lucky star!"

If there be a planet Lucifer, that was Simon's lucky star.

And so, Mrs Quarles the biter is going to be bit, eh? It generally is so
in this world's government. You, who brought in your estimable nephew to
aid and abet in your own dishonest ways, are, it seems, going to be
robbed of all your knavish gains by him. This is taking the wise in
their own craftiness, I reckon: and richly you deserve to lose all your
ill-got hoard. At the same time, Mrs. Quarles--I will be just--there are
worse people in the world than you are: in comparison with your nephew,
I consider you a grosser kind of angel; and I really hope no harm may
befall your old bones beyond the loss of your money. However, if you are
to lose this, it is my wish that poor Mrs. Scott, or some other honest
body, may get it, and not Simon; or rather, I should not object that he
may get it first, and get hung for getting it, too, before the sister
has the hoard.

Our friend, Simon Jennings, could not sleep that night; his reveries and
scheming lasted from the rum-punch's final drop, at ten P.M., to
circiter two A.M., and then, or thenabouts, the devil hinted "steal it;"
and so, not till nearly four, he began to shut his eyes, and dream
again, as his usual fashion was, of adding up receipts in five figures,
and of counting out old Bridget's hoarded gold.

Next day, notwithstanding nocturnal semi-sleeplessness, he awoke as
brisk as a bee, got up in as exhilarated a state as any gas-balloon, and