He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. Another picture slid across her vision. 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.
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