The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. "It's runnin' a great risk. Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased. The Reaper is not sated yet. Wait, though. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St.
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