But
I couldn't lick him gradely because th' landlord come in and stopped
us; so after a while I went hooum. Next morning I was going along
Dale Street towards the docks to work, when who should I see but that
varra same blackfellow: it looked as if th' devil was in it. He was
by hisself this time, coming along at th' other side of th' street.
So I crossed over and met him, and went close up to him and said,
'Well, what have you to say for yoursel' now?' and I gav him a lick
under th' ear. He fell down on th' kerbstone and wouldn't get up--
turned sulky like. There was soon a crowd about, and they tried to
wakken him up; but he wouldn't help hisself a bit--just sulked and
wouldn't stir. I don't believe he'd ha' died but for that, because I
nobbut give him but one hit. I thowt I'd better make mysel' scarce
for a while, so I left Liverpool and went to Preston. Were you ever
in Preston?" I said I was. "Well then, you'll remember Melling, the
fish-monger, a varra big, fat man. I worked for him for about six
months, and then come back to Liverpool, thinking there'd be no more
bother about the blackfellow. But they took me up, and gev me
fourteen year for it; and if it had been a white man I wouldn't ha'
got more than twelve months, and I was sent out to Van Diemen's Land
and ruined for ever, just for nowt else but giving a chance lick to a
blackfellow.
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