" "Oh! he told you that, did he?" said Blueskin, marching up to her, and chucking her under the chin. 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. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. "Rather in the way. .
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