The ruffian, at least, whom I now carried Pinkerton to visit, was one of the most crapulous in the quarter.

He turned out for our delectation a huge "crust" (as we used to call it) of St.
Stephen, wallowing in red upon his belly in an exhausted receiver, and a crowd of Hebrews in blue, green, and yellow, pelting him--apparently with buns; and while we gazed upon this contrivance, regaled us with a piece of his own recent biography, of which his mind was still very full, and which he seemed to fancy, represented him in a heroic posture.
I was one of those cosmopolitan Americans, who accept the world (whether at home or abroad) as they find it, and whose favourite part is that of the spectator; yet even I was listening with ill-suppressed disgust, when I was aware of a violent plucking at my sleeve.
"Is he saying he kicked her down stairs ?" asked Pinkerton, white as St.
Stephen.
"Yes," said I: "his discarded mistress; and then he pelted her with stones.

I suppose that's what gave him the idea for his picture.

He has just been alleging the pathetic excuse that she was old enough to be his mother." Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton.

"Tell him," he gasped--"I can't speak this language, though I understand a little; I never had any proper education--tell him I'm going to punch his head." "For God's sake, do nothing of the sort!" I cried.