Bob laughed heartily at his Cousin's interpretation of Daffy's. While Tom humm'd, in an under tone, the fag end of a song, by way of conclusion-- “Why, there's old Mother Jones, of St. Thomas's Street, If a jovial companion she chances to meet, Away to the gin-shop they fly for some max, And for it they'd pawn the last smock from their backs; For the juniper berry, It makes their hearts merry, With a hey down, down deny, Geneva's the liquor of life.” By this time they were at the Globe; upon entering which, they were greeted by Mortimer and Merry well, who had arrived before them; and dinner being served almost immediately, they were as quickly seated at the table, to partake of an excellent repast. 1 It is a well-known fact, that a person of the name of Tiffin announced himself to the world under this very seductive title, which, doubtless, had the effect of bringing him considerable custom from the loyal subjects of his great patron. LONDON VOL I. Part 2. CHAPTER XVII “Here fashion and folly still go hand in hand, With the Blades of the East, and the Bucks of the Strand; The Bloods of the Park, and paraders so gay, Who are lounging in Bond Street the most of the day-- Who are foremost in all that is formed for delight, At greeking, or wenching, or drinking all night; For London is circled with unceasing joys: Then, East, West, North and South, let us hunt them, my boys.” ~258~~ THE entrance to the house had attracted Tallyho's admiration as they proceeded; but the taste and elegance of the Coffee-room, fitted up with brilliant chandeliers, and presenting amidst a blaze of splendour every comfort and accommodation for its visitors, struck him with surprise; in which however he was not suffered to remain long, for Merrywell and Mortimer had laid their plans with some degree of depth and determination to carry into execution the proposed ramble of the evening, and had ordered a private room for the party; besides which, they had invited a friend to join them, who was introduced to Tom and Bob, under the title of Frank Harry. Frank Harry was a humorous sort of fellow, who could tell a tough story, sing a merry song, and was up to snuff, though he frequently got snuffy, singing, “The bottle's the Sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine: We, planets never are able Without his beams to shine. Let mirth and glee abound, You'll soon grow bright With borrow'd light, And shine as he goes round.”