Digital heart book

A similar mystery hangs over the intermediate
stages of the medical profession, and must have
perplexed the least observant. The ruffian, at least,
whom I now carried Pinkerton to visit, was one of the
most crapulous in the quarter. He turned out for our
delectation a huge "crust" (as we used to call it) of
St. Stephen, wallowing in red upon his belly in an
exhausted receiver, and a crowd of Hebrews in blue,
green, and yellow, pelting him--apparently with buns;
and while we gazed upon this contrivance, regaled us
with a piece of his own recent biography, of which his
mind was still very full, and which, he seemed to
fancy, represented him in an heroic posture. I was one
of those cosmopolitan Americans who accept the world
(whether at home or abroad) as they find it, and whose
favourite part is that of the spectator; yet even I was
listening with ill-suppressed disgust, when I was aware
of a violent plucking at my sleeve.
"Is he saying he kicked her down-stairs?" asked
Pinkerton, white as St. Stephen.
"Yes," said I: "his discarded mistress; and then he
pelted her with stones.


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