“Oh, please. Having made a tolerably good meal upon the loaf, overcome by fatigue, Jack turned into a barn in Stoke Newington, and slept till late in the day, when he awakened much refreshed. ’ ‘Yes, but if it is only we that know, it is of no use at all to me. 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. "Gad! it's a devilish fine face when lit up. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it. "And you would surrender yourself —eh?" "I'll surrender myself at once, if you'll engage to bring him off; and you'll get the reward from old Wood.
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