"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. 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. “You wouldn’t. ‘You have made a serious mistake, Melusine.
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