further display of his powers, and retired smilingly, edging his way
to the pavement, where he found poor Zachariah almost helpless.

"Holloa, my republican friend, d---n it, that's a nasty lick you've
got, and from one of the people too; that makes it harder to bear,
eh? Never mind, he's worse off than you are."

Zachariah thanked him as well as he could for defending him.

"Not a word; haven't got a scratch myself. Come along with me;" and
he dragged him along Piccadilly into a public-house in Swallow
Street, where apparently he was well known. Water was called for;
Zachariah was sponged, the wound strapped up, some brandy given him,
and the stranger, ordering a hackney coach, told the driver to take
the gentleman home.

"Wait a bit," he called, as the coach drove off. "You may feel
faint; I'll go home with you," and in a moment he was by Zachariah's
side. The coach found its way slowly through the streets to some
lodgings in Clerkenwell. It was well the stranger did go, for his
companion on arrival was hardly able to crawl upstairs to give a
coherent account to his wife of what had happened.

Zachariah Coleman, working man, printer, was in April 1814 about
thirty years old. He was employed in a jobbing office in the city,
where he was compositor and pressman as well. He had been married in
January 1814 to a woman a year younger than himself, who attended the
meeting-house at Hackney, whither he went on the Sunday. He was a
Dissenter in religion, and a fierce Radical in politics, as many of
the Dissenters in that day were. He was not a ranter or revivalist,