“Some day,” she answered. ’ ‘A pretty tale. 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. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. " The lad made no answer, but left the room. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. " "But, my love," still remonstrated Wood, "you know I'm going to look after the boys——" "After Mrs. F. You know the sort of thing. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice.
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