He then buttons his linen very moodily, twice or thrice stopping to examine his arms and hands, as if to see what punishment he has received in the Fight. He then doggedly demands his other garments, and slowly gets them on, with an appearance of great malevolence towards his late opponent and all the spectators. He has an impression that his nose is bleeding, and several times draws the back of his hand across it, and looks for the result, in a pugilistic manner, greatly strengthening that incongruous resemblance.

“Where’s my fur cap?” he asks in a surly voice, when he has shuffled his clothes on.

“In the river,” somebody rejoins.

“And warn’t there no honest man to pick it up? O’course there was though, and to cut off with it arterwards. You are a rare lot, all on you!”