"Jack!" exclaimed Thames. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Collins, you can go now. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ’ ‘Now why didn’t I make that connection?’ Gerald asked of the air in a tone of regret.
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