With these words the old man rose, and shuffled out of the room.
His denunciation of the abominable system of doctoring wines, spirits, and malt liquors produced a gloomy effect upon the company whom he left behind. The Buffer glanced often and often towards the clock: the time was passing rapidly; and yet the person for whom he was waiting came not.
"Who'll tip us a song?" said the Knacker, glancing around.
"There's Jovial Jenkins up in the corner there," exclaimed the cat's-meat man. "He's the chap for a song."
"Well, I don't mind, pals," cried a diminutive specimen of the male sex, dressed in a suit of clothes every way too large for him. "What shall I sing yer? Oh! I s'pose it must be the favourite—eh? Come—here goes, then."
And in another minute the parlour of the boozing-ken reverberated with the intonations of the following strange song:—
THE MAN OF MANY PURSUITS.[[12]]
Come, lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber!
My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber:
Here's a noggin of lightning to slacken your glib;—