Michael Angin, who had some notions of boxing, was completely satisfied in a single round with Langan, at Clontarf. A tremendous nobber put Mike’s head in chancery. On returning to his mother’s cabin, she saluted him with “Arragh! Mike, my jewel, what have you got in your mouth, that makes you look so ugly?” “It’s Jack Langan’s fist, mother. I am almost choked,” replied Angin, hoarse as a raven. “Take it out, my darlint,” said his parent; “sure it is no good to anybody!” Robert Titford, Dan Henigan (brother of the boxer of that name), and Jem Turner, were, in succession, disposed of with apparent ease by our hero. In short, he had no competitor amongst the boys, and therefore we will take leave of his early turn-ups, for battles of a more manly description. Langan had a desperate battle with a man of the name of Hemet: the latter person struck the father of our hero. “I will make you repent your conduct, you blackguard,” said Jack. “A boy like you?” replied Hemet; “I’ll kick your breech, if you give me any more of your prate.” Young Langan, as we have before mentioned, was fond of milling; but in defence of his father felt doubly armed; and in the course of thirty minutes Hemet was glad to acknowledge the boy was his master. One Savage, a man weighing about eleven stone, and twenty-one years of age, had behaved unhandsomely to Jack three years previously to the period when the following circumstances transpired. Langan, although not more than sixteen years old, entertained an opinion that he was able to take the field against Savage, and challenged him without hesitation. Savage, with the utmost contempt, accepted the challenge, and agreed to fight on the banks of the Dublin canal. A few friends on each side attended to see fair play. The battle was long, and well-contested; but night coming on, as neither of the combatants would agree to surrender, it was deemed expedient according to the laws of honour, to fight it out, and therefore candles[10] were introduced. But, before the glims required topping, Langan floored his opponent, by a wisty-castor upon the jugular, and Savage was carried home amidst the lamentations of his friends, and the regret of Langan. Savage was washed and laid out by his lamenting associates, and everything comfortable prepared to “wake” him. The body was surrounded by about forty old women and men, smoking and drinking, and bewailing his loss, interspersed every now and then with some prime fil-la-loos. “Arrah! my dear Jemmy, why did you put your head in the way of Jack Langan’s fist?” In the midst of this beautiful solemnity, to the great surprise and confusion of the company present, Mr. Savage waked himself, but, before he could enquire into the particulars how he came into this strange situation, the whole assembly brushed off with terror, leaving the corpse to explain his position in the best manner he could.