'I'm kilt!' he repeated.

'He's broken my back--he's broken my legs--he's broken my ribs--he's broken my collar-bone--he's knocked my right eye into the heel of my left boot.

Oh! will nobody catch him and kill him?
Will nobody do for him?
Will you see an English nobleman knocked about like a ninepin ?' added his lordship, scrambling up to go in pursuit of Mr.Sponge himself, exclaiming, as he stood shaking his fist at him, 'Rot ye, sir! hangin's too good for ye! you should be condemned to hunt in Berwickshire the rest of your life!'.