“That was a sharp fight, Perkins.”
“And no mistake, sir. As good a turn-up as I've had for a long time. There'll be some smartish black eyes in the morning.”
“Do you think there is really going to be a row with these Chartists, Perkins?”
“I don't think so, sir. They don't mind the bobbies, but they'll never stand against the red coats. I'm going to-morrow to get sworn in as a special. I ain't going to have them coming in to the ‘Stunners’ to help themselves without pay. I don't know, and I don't care, a rap about the charter, and I don't believe one in fifty of them knows theirselves. What they want isn't the charter so much as their neighbour's goods. Well, they won't get my beer till some of 'em have gone down. They'll find that they have to pay for it one way or the other. Here we are, sir, and I ain't sorry, for I don't know that I was ever so dry in my life.”
“So am I, Perkins; the heat and stench in that place was tremendous. The fighting, too, was warm while it lasted. I don't think any of us got hit.”
“Hit!” said Perkins, contemptuously; “no, nor we shouldn't have been if we had stopped there all night. Not as long as we could have kept them at arm's length. The worst of that sort of row is, that the fellows who are behind always want to get close, and they push the chaps in front on so that at last one gets jammed up into a heap, and can't use one's arms. No, I think we just stopped long enough. The leg of a table is a nasty sort of thing to come down on your guard. Now then, sir, what's your liquor?”