Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. If you had arrived ten minutes later, or if there hadn't been an iron bar in the chimney, that hindered my progress, I should have been beyond your reach. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. The second look told me I was wrong. 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.
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