Thunder and lightning! explosion and blood! Knock it out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouch stuck to the head.
The two gave and took blows which would have stunned--possibly have killed--any civilized member of the community.

Now on one side of his patron's iron skull, and now on the other, the hammering of the prize-fighter's gloves fell, thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until even Geoffrey himself had had enough of it.

"Thank you, Crouch," he said, speaking civilly to the man for the first time.

"That will do.

I feel nice and clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he was rubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank a mighty draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as if by magic.
"Want the pen and ink, Sir ?" inquired his pedestrian host.