"Ah!" exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively. From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle, followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him. 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. I've taught him all he can do; and there isn't his fellow, and never will be again.
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