The first was Jack Wonnell. He hiccoughed, cried
"Steeple-top!" and slunk behind a mulberry-tree. The second man was
Levin Dennis, hardly able to stand, and he sat down on the groggery
step, smiling up idiotically.
The third man, rising like a giant out of his boots, with his arms
swaying like loose grapevines, and his bearded face streaked with
tobacco drippings, looking insolence and contempt, brought the flat of
one hand fairly down on the crown of Milburn's surprising tile, with the
words:
"Halloo! Yer's Goosecap! Hocus that cady, Old Gripefist!"
The hat, age being against it, wilted down on Meshach's eyes, and the
heedless stroke, unconsciously powerful, staggered him.
Samson, who had drunk in the giant's qualifications with an instant's
admiration, immediately drew off, seeing his master insulted, and struck
the tall stranger a blow with his fist. The man reeled, rallied, and
sought to grapple with Samson. That skilful pugilist bent his knees,
slided his shoulders back, and, avoiding the clutch, raised, and threw
his trunk forward, with the blow studied well, and planted his knuckles
in the white man's eyes. The tall ruffian went down as from a bolt of
lightning.
Milburn saw all this happen in a minute of time, and his eye, looking
for something to defend himself, dropped on the brick pier under the
groggery steps, where Levin Dennis sat, stupefied by the scene.
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