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It was empty. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. 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 will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. CHAPTER XVI.
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