" "The link of the chain next the staple is sawn through," said Ireton, stooping to examine Blueskin's fetters. "No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel. 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 have something further to tell you," pursued Winifred. Before he forced an entrance, Jack tried it, and, to his great surprise and delight, found it unfastened.
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