“I want to speak to you about a little thing, Vee,” said Mr. Earles?” he inquired. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Look at it, I say. 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 light the stove, and there shall be some coffee presently.
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