hung a couple of white, ghastly-looking, carcasses of a couple of sheep; a great gutter ran down the court—a gutter of blood!'—the dog was devouring his beef-steak (our beef-steak) in silence,—and we could see through the little window the girls bustling about to pack up the supper-things, and presently the shop-door opened, old Brisket entered, staggering, angry, and drunk. What’s more, we could see, perched on a high stool, and nodding politely, as if to salute old Brisket, the feather of Dobble’s cocked hat! When Dobble saw it he turned white, and deadly sick; and the poor fellow, in an agony of fright, sunk shivering down upon one of the butcher’s cutting blocks, which was in the yard.
We saw old Brisket look steadily (as steadily as he could) at the confounded impudent, pert, waggling feather; and then an idea began to draw upon his mind, that there was a head to the hat; and then he slowly rose up—he was a man of six feet, and fifteen stone—he rose up, put on his apron and sleeves, and took down his cleaver.
