He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. 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. " He summoned another "boy" and rumbled some Cantonese. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder.
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