omit his whole designation--Timothy Oldmixon, I say, burning with hate
and eager with haste, turning a corner of the street with his basket
well filled with medicines hanging on his left arm, encountered, equally
eager in his haste, and equally burning in his hate, the red-haired
Mercury of Mr Ebenezer Pleggit. Great was the concussion of the opposing
baskets, dire was the crash of many of the vials, and dreadful was the
mingled odour of the abominations which escaped, and poured through the
wicker interstices. Two ladies from Billingsgate, who were near,
indulging their rhetorical powers, stopped short. Two tom cats, who were
on an adjacent roof, just fixing their eyes of enmity, and about to fix
their claws, turned their eyes to the scene below. Two political
antagonists stopped their noisy arguments. Two dustmen ceased to ring
their bells; and two little urchins eating cherries from the crowns of
their hats, lost sight of their fruit, and stood aghast with fear. They
met, and met with such violence, that they each rebounded many paces;
but like stalwart knights, each kept his basket and his feet. A few
seconds to recover breath; one withering, fiery look from Timothy,
returned by his antagonist, one flash of the memory in each to tell them
that they each had the _la_ on their side, and "Take that!" was roared
by Timothy, planting a well-directed blow with his dexter and dexterous
hand upon the sinister and sinisterous eye of his opponent. "Take that!"
continued he, as his adversary reeled back; "take that, and be d----d to
you, for running against a _gentleman_."

He of the rubicund hair had retreated, because so violent was the blow
he could not help so doing, and we all must yield to fate. But it was
not from fear. Seizing a vile potation that was labelled "to be taken
immediately," and hurling it with demoniacal force right on the chops of
the courageous Timothy, "Take that!" cried he, with a rancorous yell.
This missile, well directed as the spears of Homer's heroes, came full