" "Dere's de other door!" cried Mendez, in alarm. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. I saw him lying on the footway. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense.
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