The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. A species of vertigo seized him. In fact he was thinking of other things. Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise.
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