Jack affected to close the door, but left it slightly ajar. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. 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. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. There was a black fear in his heart.
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