The drayman instantly responded by a clutch at it, but before he could touch it he had an awful cut across the lips, delivered with such scientific accuracy from the left shoulder that it was clear it came from a disciple of Jackson or Tom Cribb. The crowd now became intensely delighted and excited, and a cry of “A ring, a ring!” was raised. The drayman, blind with rage, let out with his right arm with force enough to fell an ox, but the stroke was most artistically parried, and the response was another fearful gash over the right eye. By this time the patriot had had enough, and declined to continue the contest. His foe, too, seemed to have no desire for any further display of his powers, and retired smilingly, edging his way to the pavement, where he found poor Zachariah almost helpless. “Holloa, my republican friend, d—n it, that’s a nasty lick you’ve got, and from one of the people too; that makes it harder to bear, eh? Never mind, he’s worse off than you are.” Zachariah thanked him as well as he could for defending him. “Not a word; haven’t got a scratch myself. Come along with me;” and he dragged him along Piccadilly into a public-house in Swallow Street, where apparently he was well known. Water was called for; Zachariah was sponged, the wound strapped up, some brandy given him, and the stranger, ordering a hackney coach, told the driver to take the gentleman home. “Wait a bit,” he called, as the coach drove off. “You may feel faint; I’ll go home with you,” and in a moment he was by Zachariah’s side. The coach found its way slowly through the streets to some lodgings in Clerkenwell. It was well the stranger did go, for his companion on arrival was hardly able to crawl upstairs to give a coherent account to his wife of what had happened.