On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. I might have known it. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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