But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. 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. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city.
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