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
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.
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