“Take away that ’ere bag from the t’other madman,” said Sam to Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a tortoiseshell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man stunned. “Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I’ll smother you in it.”

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the Independent suffered himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pott, set him free with a caution.

“You take yourselves off to bed quietly,” said Sam, “or I’ll put you both in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould a dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here way, sir, if you please.”