loodletting; but to lose blood in a peaceable manner was not only
cowardly, but a bad cure for courage. Neal declined it: he would lose
no blood for any man until he could not help it; which was giving the
character of a hero at a single touch. His blood was not to be thrown
away in this manner; the only lancet ever applied to his relations was
the cudgel, and Neal scorned to abandon the principles of his family.

His friends finding that he reserved his blood for more heroic purposes
than dastardly phlebotomy, knew not what to do with him. His perpetual
exclamation was, as we have already stated, "I'm blue-mowlded for want
of a batin'!" They did everything in their power to cheer him with the
hope of a drubbing; told him he lived in an excellent country for a man
afflicted with his malady; and promised, if it were at all possible,
to create him a private enemy or two, who, they hoped in heaven, might
trounce him to some purpose.

This sustained him for a while; but as day after day passed, and no
appearance of action presented itself, he could not choose but increase
in courage. His soul, like a sword-blade too long in the scabbard, was
beginning to get fuliginous by inactivity. He looked upon the point of
his own needle, and the bright edge of his scissors, with a bitter pang,
when he thought of the spirit rusting within him: he meditated fresh
insults, studied new plans, and hunted out cunning devices for provoking
his acquaintances to battle, until by degrees he began to confound his
own bram, and to commit more grievous oversights in his business than
ever. Sometimes he sent home to one person a coat, with the legs of a
pair of trousers attached to it for sleeves, and despatched to another
the arms of the aforesaid coat tacked together as a pair of trousers.

Sometimes the coat was made to button behind instead of before, and he
frequently placed the pockets in the lower part of the skirts, as if he
had been in league with cut-purses.

This was a melancholy situation, and his friends pitied him accordingly.

"Don't bo cast down, Neal," said they, "your friends feel for you, poor
fellow."

"Divil carry my frinds," replied Neal, "sure there's not one o' yez
frindly enough to be my inimy. Tare-an'-ounze! what'll I do? I'm
blue-rhowlded for want of a batin'!"

Seeing that their consolation was thrown away upon him, they resolved
to leave him to his fate; which they had no sooner done than Neal had
thoughts of ta