Like a tiger-cat ready to spring.

Tant Sannie crouched, with the shoulder of mutton in her hand.
Exactly beneath her stood Bonaparte.

She rose and clasped with both arms the barrel of salt meat.
"What, rose of the desert, nightingale of the colony, that with thine amorous lay whilest the lonesome night!" cried Bonaparte, seizing the hand that held the vonlicsense.

"Nay, struggle not! Fly as a stricken fawn into the arms that would embrace thee, thou--" Here a stream of cold pickle-water, heavy with ribs and shoulders, descending on his head abruptly terminated his speech.

Half-blinded, Bonaparte looked up through the drops that hung from his eyelids, and saw the red face that looked down at him.