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. ’ Still no response. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. It is possible she is dangerous, and the police are looking into several cold murder cases where she may have been involved. Sure Mike!" At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his chief, explaining every detail of the fizzle.
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