" "I expect no commiseration," returned Mrs. And then she fell into a musing about Capes. 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. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. This one too she read. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. "So I think," replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box, and by that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his companion. " "What's the meaning of all this?" demanded Sir Cecil.
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