“Mean as an old mule, too. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously.
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