Gathered together at The Saracen's Head to mark with grace and solemnity the passing of their dear departed friend Mr Bradley Headstone, the United Bulldogs were outnumbered by a mob of thirsty revellers, who had elected to participate in the sombre occasion on the expectation of free liquor with the possibility of a free-for-all thrown in for good measure. The bar of the tavern - once the calm refuge of the weary traveller - was now crammed with men and filled with a deafening noise of oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at once into a bear-garden, a madhouse, an infernal temple. Men darting in and out, by door and window, drinking from flagons and from flasks, from jugs and from bottles, even from the taps of the casks, from which flowed catarachs of wine and ale.
From the safety of his vantage point sitting astride one such cask, Mr Swiveller - swigging occasionally from a black bottle of porter - was able to survey the hurly-burly without the inconvenience of being required to participate in it, much as a general will look on a battle from the safety of higher ground. More men still - swarming on like insects - new faces and figures presenting themselves every instant - some yelling, some singing, some fighting, some breaking glass and crockery, some armed with pokers, some with clubs, some with the legs of chairs that they had broken for the purpose of clubbing their fellow man. Just as Mr Swiveller was beginning to fear for his own safety, there rang out a cry and a rapid murmur flowed through the crowd like a swift moving current. Like the sea that was parted by Moses, a path appeared between the men and along it approached a figure, who, coming to a halt at the bar, raised his head and from beneath the wide brim of his hat revealed his pale and ragged face to be none other than that of Mr Bradley Headstone!
Mr Charles Dickens
