“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight against the Church of England.”

“I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat; “my quarrel is with the aristocracy.  If I said anything against the Church, it is merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black, so let him carry it on.  However,” he continued suddenly, “I won’t slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight against the Church of England.  So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the Church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.”

Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward.  He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order.  Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us.  “There shall be no fighting here,” said he:  “no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house.  But you fool,” said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, “do you know whom you are going to tackle with?—­this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers Dingle.  Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter.  Ar’n’t it all true, young man?  Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers Dingle?” “I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I:  “he beat himself.  Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t be here at the present moment.”  “Hear! hear!” said the landlord, “now that’s just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon the young man than modesty.  I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England.  I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle; though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself—­indeed, the best man that ever fought in England.  Yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again.  Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say; if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can.  I’ll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen—­because why?  I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”