"Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. 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. "The poor young man!" she said. I shall only pray that I may reward you for all your goodness to me.
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