Your soul is in the sky!
as the hinspired Shakspeare wittily remarks.'
"And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and pretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was alas! no counterfeit, while poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fast upon my knees.
"'Fine him a pot!' roared one, 'for talking about kicking the bucket. He's a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and talk about "a short life and a merry one." Here comes the heavy. Hand it here to take the taste of that fellow's talk out of my mouth.'
"'Well, my young 'un,' recommenced my tormentor, 'and how do you like your company?'
"'Leave the boy alone,' growled Crossthwaite: 'don't you see he's crying?'
"'Is that any thing good to eat? Give me some on it, if it is—it'll save me washing my face.' And he took hold of my hair and pulled my head back.
"'I'll tell you what, Jemmy Downes,' said Crossthwaite, in a voice that made him draw back, 'if you don't drop that, I'll give you such a taste of my tongue as shall turn you blue.'
"'You'd better try it on, then. Do—only just now—if you please.'