Charley Pevenill was our host. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. "Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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