She pushed us out, patted and hushed the dog, and was in again in a minute. The moon was shining on the court, and on the slaughter-house, where there hung the white ghastly-looking carcasses of a couple of sheep; a great gutter ran down the court--a gutter of BLOOD! The dog was devouring his beefsteak (OUR beefsteak) in silence; and we could see through the little window the girls hustling about to pack up the supper-things, and presently the shop-door being opened, old Brisket entering, staggering, angry, and drunk. What's more, we could see, perched on a high stool, and nodding politely, as if to salute old Brisket, the FEATHER OF DOBBLE'S COCKED HAT! When Dobble saw it, he turned white, and deadly sick; and the poor fellow, in an agony of fright, sunk shivering down upon one of the butcher's cutting-blocks, which was in the yard. We saw old Brisket look steadily (as steadily as he could) at the confounded, impudent, pert, waggling feather; and then an idea began to dawn upon his mind, that there was a head to the hat; and then he slowly rose up--he was a man of six feet, and fifteen stone--he rose up, put on his apron and sleeves, and TOOK DOWN HIS CLEAVER. “Betsy,” says he, “open the yard door.” But the poor girls screamed, and flung on their knees, and begged, and wept, and did their very best to prevent him. “OPEN THE YARD DOOR!” says he, with a thundering loud voice; and the great bull-dog, hearing it, started up and uttered a yell which sent me flying to the other end of the court.--Dobble couldn't move; he was sitting on the block, blubbering like a baby. The door opened, and out Mr. Brisket came. “TO HIM, JOWLER!” says he. “KEEP HIM, JOWLER!”--and the horrid dog flew at me, and I flew back into the corner, and drew my sword, determining to sell my life dearly. “That's it,” says Brisket. “Keep him there,--good dog,--good dog! And now, sir,” says he, turning round to Dobble, “is this your hat?” “Yes,” says Dobble, fit to choke with fright. “Well, then,” says Brisket, “it's my--(hic)--my painful duty to--(hic)--to tell you, that as I've got your hat, I must have your head;--it's painful, but it must be done. You'd better--(hic)--settle yourself com--comfumarably against that--(hic)--that block, and I'll chop it off before you can say Jack--(hic)--no, I mean Jack Robinson.” Dobble went down on his knees and shrieked out, “I'm an only son, Mr. Brisket! I'll marry her, sir; I will, upon my honor, sir.--Consider my mother, sir; consider my mother.” “That's it, sir,” says Brisket, “that's a good--(hic)--a good boy;--just put your head down quietly--and I'll have it off--yes, off--as if you were Louis the Six--the Sixtix--the Siktickleteenth.--I'll chop the other CHAP AFTERWARDS.”