” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. . 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. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little.
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