of close-cut whisker which meanders among
the shaven bristles for at least an inch and
a quarter, and resembles a sluggish leech or
a study in court plaister. Add to these
personal advantages, that his "mug"—I can
think of no other word so appropriate here is
as conventionally smiling as that of a comic
singer at a music-hall; that he exacts rigidly,
and as a point of honour, that each time he is
spoken to, the person addressing him shall repeat
his speech three times; that some will have it
"there's a deal o' kiddin' about his deafness, and
he could hear well enough if you were to offer him
a fiver;" that he is broad, and stout, and squat;
and you have Mr. Larry Shuntem. But the
peculiarity in this gentleman which struck us
most, was the way he used his arms and legs.
These were simperingly put forward as rare
things in their way, as a coin-collector shows
you his choicest specimen, or a botanist his
newest plant. They were dragged into the
conversation, whether the topic were to-morrow's
conflict, the past history of the ring, the
quality of the liquor we were drinking, or the age
and antecedents of Zeb Spice. By affectionate
pats and taps; by a halt-absent manipulation
of the Hercules muscle of one arm with the
hand of another; by an apparently mechanical
stretching out of both at full length, and a
subsequent rapid drawing into the chest; by an
uneasy restlessness of the legs—a restlessness
which betrayed itself by intermittent snatches
of hasty dancing, like votive offerings at the
shrine of Saint Vitus; these limbs were made
to take chief part in the conversation, and
to leave their sluggish smiling owner
incontinently behind. We are told that Mr. Fezzywig
appeared to wink with his legs, but bold
Larry's stout supporters were so full of eloquent
silence that they seemed to talk.

At last King Harold spoke, and the soul of
Shuntem was made glad. "Show the gentleman
your leg, Larry!" Whereupon the stout calf was
immediately bared for admiration and applause.
When it was uncovered, Shuntem's manner
became positively devotional. "Now your arm,
Larry!" was the signal for that limb to be
doubled up, and its hard firm muscle to be
punched and kneaded while its owner marched
solemnly round and round, until all present had
tried to nip it in vain. These rites performed,
Mr. Shuntem became easier, and after snuffling
out with ill-simulated modesty, "Not a bad leg
for a hold 'un, sir, hey?" "Not so werry bad a
harm for a hold 'un, sir, hey?" to every person
in company, obviously believing that each
repetition was an original remark, he sank back in
his easy-chair with the air of a man who had
done his duty to himself and to the world.
He was never so animated again throughout
our stay. Cuss had took punishment in his
time, nobody couldn't deny that; and Spice
were artful and up to many clever dodges with
his fists, but as for sayin' 'ow it'd go
tomorrer, Larry Shuntem wosn't the man to do
it. And that reminds me, Mr. Southall, sir,
that I wants the orfice. A little whispering                                                             here. "Well, it wouldn't be right to make a
hold 'and like me pay two quid and be blanked
to it, would it now? No, sir, I paid my three
quid at King and Heenan's time—leastways, a
gentleman on the Stock Exchange paid it for
me—but it fretted me the more that did, for I
oughtn't to 'ave to pay. Why should I? I
won't do it, that's 'all; but I'll tell yer wot I'll
do. I'll come down by the reg'lar train, if
yer'll only give me the orfice as to where you
start."

An obvious inclination to show us the treasured
leg and arm once more, as an equivalent
for the favour asked, was cut short by King
Harold pledging his regal word that if Mr.
Shuntem wished to see the battle, he must
come with the rest, and be at Ludgate-hill
shortly before five in the morning. "Tell yer I
won't do it, Mr. Southall. Why should I? But
if yer goin' on to Bill Grandison's, sir, p'r'aps yer
won't mind lookin' in as yer come back, to let us
'ave the latest noos, just 'ow they look, yer
know, and wot's a goin' on."We promise to
do this, and pass through the bar again, to the
intense admiration of the raffish loungers
assembled there, and of a drunken Irish labourer,
who insists that one of our party is the great
Mr. Heenan, and who, following us to the door,
talks maudlingly of "mee own brother in
Californy, which he knew you well, Jack
Heenan, and backed yer up the night yer
fought the digger, afore you wos the big man
yer are now."

Mr. William Grandison, as everybody knows,
keeps the Scarlet Capstan, down Bethnal-green
way. He was one of King's principal backers
when the latter vanquished Heenan, and he
is reputed to have provided some of the
money which Spice has staked against Cuss.
It is an inspiriting thing to be seated in the
sacred privacy of his own bar-parlour, and to
make the acquaintance, share in the conversation,
and be stimulated by the example, of his
chosen friends. There is little Freddy Pills,
one of the swiftest runners of his day, and who
now, at the mature age of three-and-twenty,
speaks of "in my time," as an epoch which
only men of great antiquarian research can
compass. Freddy keeps the Stag and Bluebottle
at Hoxton, and retired from pedestrianism
when he donned the white apron and went to
the bar. He has a pleasant fair little face, is
of short stature and slight build, and is no more
like a publican than an Eton lad is like a
bishop. That loud-voiced beetle-browed sallow-
faced thick-lipped heavy-countenanced personage
in the pepper-and-salt suit, who is fondling
Grandison's bull-dog, is Tim Ford, the irreclaimable
quintessence of ruffianism. King Harold's
advent reminds him of some grievances, real
or imaginary, against the conductors of the
Sleepless Life, and elicits a torrent of blasphemy
against the eyes and limbs of the individuals
connected with, and the corporate existence
of that journal. At last, turning savagely
round to the bull-dog, Mr. Ford fell to kissing
and playing with it, until warned by low