There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. Lucy followed. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. That is why I ask you. There was nothing to be got out of the man. A little love from him would be enough. " "No; it is only—what shall I say?—troubled. I jumped then—I was not even shaken.
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