wrong with them, consoled herself for the absence of realities by the creations of smoke.
Meanwhile, Dummie Dunnaker, muttering and murmuring bitter fancies, overtook Paul, and accused that youth of having been the occasion of the injuries he had just undergone. Paul was not at that moment in the humour best adapted for the patient bearing of accusations, he answered Mr. Dunnaker very shortly; and that respectable individual still smarting under his bruises, replied with equal tartness. Words grew high, and at length, Paul, desirous of concluding the conference, clenched his fist, and told the redoubted Dummie that he would "knock him down." There is something peculiarly harsh and stunning in those three, hard—wirey—sturdy—stubborn monosyllables. Their very sound makes you double your fist—if you are a hero; or your pace, if you are a peaceable man. They produced an instant effect upon Dummie Dunnaker, aided as they were by the effect of an athletic and youthful figure, already fast approaching to the height of six feet,—a flushed cheek, and an eye that bespoke both passion and resolution. The rag-merchant's voice
