Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so called--Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and "a better shentleman," in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman.

But how shall I name them all?
they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way.

There was Bulldog Hudson, and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew.

There was Black Richmond--no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh.

There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him.