All now rose, and a more strange collection of excited faces could scarcely have been seen, than was presented just then at the Chequers in expectation of a serious battle between the smith and his antagonist, who, although not near so stout a man, was fully as tall, and a great deal younger looking than he. “What do you want here?” said Britton. “I shall not tell you,” replied the man. “You can fight?” “A little.” “Where I came from,” added Britton, “we wrestle a little.” “So do we where I came from,” replied the other, calmly. “Do you,” cried Britton, and then confident in his own strength and skill, even half intoxicated as he was, he sprung upon the man, and seizing him fairly by the shoulder and waist, he made a tremendous effort to throw him, but he produced no more impression upon the stranger than as if he had laid hold of the corner of a house. After a few moments’ exertion, he ceased, panting, from his endeavours, and at that moment the stranger put out his arms, and threw Britton so heavily upon his back that the room shook again. “Foul play! Foul play!” cried the butcher, half rising. “You lie, sir,” cried the stranger, in a tone that made the butcher fall back into his seat again with surprise. “Follow,” cried the stranger then, addressing the men who had waited patiently until the result of the combat. He then strode from the house, being immediately followed by those who appeared to know him, and under so implicit an obedience to his commands. Britton was picked up by the butcher, and laid with a thwack as if he had been some huge joint of meat, upon one of the oaken tables. “I hope there’s no bones broke,” said the landlord. “Bones broke, be bothered,” replied the butcher; “I think I ought to know something about bones and meat too.” “So you ought. Master Bond,” cried a man; “so you ought. Only I should say you knew most about bones.” “Should you, spooney—and why?” “Because you never send me a joint that isn’t at least the best part bones.” There was a general laugh against the butcher at this sally, who, glaring ferociously at the speaker, exclaimed,— “When you come to my shop again, look after your own carcass that’s all, and now for what I calls judgmatical atomy.” “What?” cried several voices. “Judgmatical atomy,” roared the butcher. “It means knowing whether bones is broke or not.” “Oh, very good, Master Bond,” said the landlord. “Pray attend to his majesty, bless him. I hope he ain’t hurt—a d—d fool.” This last sentence was uttered very low by the landlord, and Bond, the butcher, at once commenced a ludicrous examination of the various limbs of Britton. “He ain’t hurt in the fore-leg,” he remarked. “He ain’t damaged nowhere from neck to loins. He’d cut up as nice as possible, and nobody be no wiser. Pour a glass of brandy into his mouth, and hold his nose.”