" "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. ’ ‘Yes, but what is it, Jacques?’ demanded the lady. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. 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. "However, I will be there. ’ Gerald gazed at her without expression. . “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. “I always get off here and lean over that rail for a bit.
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