Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. Always as black and bitter as gall. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. He was silent. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains.
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