"Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined unless he's found out. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some precious sport. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. I’ve had the rarest luck and fallen on my feet. 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. Silk.
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