She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. 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. She crept behind the open door and pounced on him when he came out of the bathroom, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. “Now, there, there. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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