I bound him up good and tight, stuffed his mouth with a length of rope, taped it shut. He hesitated. It must be somewhere hereabouts. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. 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 wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father.
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