"Take THIS and perhaps it will quiet him."

What do you think "THIS" was? I'm blest if it was not the STEAK!

She pushed us out, patted and hushed the dog, and was in again in a
minute. The moon was shining on the court, and on the slaughter-house,
where there hung the white ghastly-looking carcasses of a couple of
sheep; a great gutter ran down the court--a gutter of BLOOD! The dog
was devouring his beefsteak (OUR beefsteak) in silence; and we could
see through the little window the girls hustling about to pack up the
supper-things, and presently the shop-door being opened, old Brisket
entering, staggering, angry, and drunk. What's more, we could see,
perched on a high stool, and nodding politely, as if to salute old
Brisket, the FEATHER OF DOBBLE'S COCKED HAT! When Dobble saw it, he
turned white, and deadly sick; and the poor fellow, in an agony of
fright, sunk shivering down upon one of the butcher's cutting-blocks,
which was in the yard.

We saw old Brisket look steadily (as steadily as he could) at the
confounded, impudent, pert, waggling feather; and then an idea began to
dawn upon his mind, that there was a head to the hat; and then he slowly
rose up--he was a man of six feet, and fifteen stone--he rose up, put on
his apron and sleeves, and TOOK DOWN HIS CLEAVER.

"Betsy," says he, "open the yard door." But the poor girls screamed, and
flung on their knees, and begged, and wept, and did their very best
to prevent him. "OPEN THE YARD DOOR!" says he, with a thundering loud
voice; and the great bull-dog, hearing it, started up and uttered a yell
which sent me flying to the other end of the court.--Dobble couldn't
move; he was sitting on the block, blubbering like a baby.

The door opened, and out Mr. Brisket came.

"TO HIM, JOWLER!" says he. "KEEP HIM, JOWLER!"--and the horrid dog flew
at me, and I flew back into the corner, and drew my sword, determining
to sell my life dearly.

"That's it," says Brisket. "Keep him there,--good dog,--good dog! And
now, sir," says he, turning round to Dobble, "is this your hat?"

"Yes," says Dobble, fit to choke with fright.

"Well, then," says Brisket, "it's my--(hic)--my painful duty
to--(hic)--to tell you, that as I've got your hat, I must have your
head;--it's painful, but it must be done. You'd better--(hic)--settle
yourself com--comfumarably against that--(hic)--that block, and I'll
chop it off before you can say Jack--(hic)--no, I mean Jack Robinson."

Dobble went