" "'The thief cometh in the night, and the troop of robbers spoileth without,'" said Wood, who had a text for every emergency. The poor fellow's half smothered. 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. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
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