At this a tremendous row was heard at the door. St. Giles’s was just beginning his orisons. Loud shouts, hard blows, and deep oaths were heard, with cries for the policeman, and “Murder, murder,” from powerful lungs. In a twinkling the kitchen was emptied, and then came the din of strife—struggling, heavy falls, swearing, the policeman’s voice, and the roar of all parties.
As soon as this animated but common affair was over, the company returned; the most of whom seemed to think it scarcely worthy of further notice; but not so with Harlequin. The Irishman was outrageous—like the war-horse, his mettle was put in motion, he whooped and bellowed, and was all kicking for a row; threw off his jacket, displaying the upper part of his body in a state of nudity, and with his clenched hand slapped his breast, which sounded like a board; then striking out, right and left, two sunburnt arms of bone, like Ossian’s heroes of old, cleaving the air with their arms for the coming fight swore that he had got one black eye, and by the Holy Mother Church and Daniel O’Connell, would not lay head upon pillow this very night until he got another.
At last, after much coaxing, pulling, and hauling, he was dragged to a seat, and John Barleycorn finally overcame him, and delivered him for a time safely into the arms of Morpheus.
York sank down upon a seat, stretched his arms over the table, buried his head between them, and in an extremely short space of time, Old Tom gave notice that he too was fast acting as an opiate upon canny Yorkshire.
