While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. Gosse had hidden himself successfully then. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. ’ Gosse blinked. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry.
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