But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. “We will see that he doesn’t follow you. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. 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.
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