She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. 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. " As Jack made no reply, the woman proceeded. "We've heard coming and going. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage.
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