blows. "Let me go! let me get at him!" cried Mr. Bulpit; and "Let me go!" also cried Smirke.
"Not by any manner of means," said little Mr. Bouncer, as he tightened his grasp on the one side, and was assisted to hold the struggling Smirke by another of Effingham's guests. "You 've shown one way of ducking a man's head, and you seem to be rather too fond of cold ducking. No, my beauty; you won't get away. It 's only bears and lions that growl and fight, and your little hands were never made to tear out Bulpit's eyes; so you had better put your angry passions in your pocket. For the present, you must consider yourself my prisoner. I 'm Detective Bouncer, of the A 1 Brazenface Division."
All the room was in a hubbub. It had not been by any means a quiet Wine from the first—Little-go Wines are usually noisy affairs; but now the confusion and racket were greatly increased. Mr. Bulpit was still forcibly striving to cross the Rubicon of the supper-table, and was wildly gesticulating, and uttering wilder threats as to what he would do to Mr. Smirke's head and various other portions of his body when he could get at him. At last, Effingham succeeded in pulling him from the table, and forcing him into his chair. Both the would-be combatants were in a pot-valiant state, and hot words were freely interchanged. More punch was also consumed by the two quarrellers; under the influence of which Mr. Smirke's speech became somewhat indistinct and incoherent.
"Shtrikes me," he said, as though the facts were just beginning to dawn upon him, "Bulpit 'tended to 'suit me. What you say, Bousher?"
"Strike you!" retorted Mr. Bulpit across the table,
