She saw his eyes glaze over. 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. A lawyer has come all the way from America about it. “It was inevitable,” he declared. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. "Who? Jack!" exclaimed Jonathan. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others.
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