The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. But he has never been near her—never. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. . Annabel laughed a little uneasily. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. "Did you never see two gentlemen with only a couple of peepers between them before!" "Never, I'll be sworn!" said Smith, taking the opportunity of filling his glass while his comrade's back was turned; "we're a nat'ral cur'osity. .
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