You are more in my power than I am in yours. But if you do not leave this room I must. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. 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. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes.
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