“It’s—private. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. 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. And the fences are down for good.
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