Zachariah was not pugnacious, and could not very well be so in the
presence of his huge antagonist; but he was no coward, and not seeing
for the moment that his hat had hopelessly gone, he turned round
savagely, and laying hold of the drayman, said:

"You ruffian, give it me back; if I am a Corsican, are you an
Englishman?"

"Take that for your b---y beaver," said the other, and dealt him a
blow with the fist right in his face, which staggered and stupefied
him, covering him with blood.

The bystanders, observing the disparity between the two men,
instantly took Zachariah's side, and called out "Shame, shame!" Nor
did they confine themselves to ejaculations, for a young fellow of
about eight and twenty, well dressed, with a bottle-green coat of
broadcloth, buttoned close, stepped up to the drayman.

"Knock my tile off, beer-barrel."

The drayman instantly responded by a clutch at it, but before he
could touch it he had an awful cut across the lips, delivered with
such scientific accuracy from the left shoulder that it was clear it
came from a disciple of Jackson or Tom Cribb. The crowd now became
intensely delighted and excited, and a cry of "A ring, a ring!" was
raised. The drayman, blind with rage, let out with his right arm
with force enough to fell an ox, but the stroke was most artistically
parried, and the response was another fearful gash over the right
eye. By this time the patriot had had enough, and declined to
continue the contest. His foe, too, seemed to have no desire for any