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"Quite well, Shingle," rejoins the gloved, a stout red faced sudoriferous yam fed planter, dressed in blue white jean trowsers and waistcoat, with long Hessian boots drawn up to his knee over the former, and a spannew square skirted blue coatee, with lots of clear brass buttons: a broad brimmed black silk hat, worn white at the edge of the crown wearing a very small neckcloth, above which shoots up an enormous shirt collar, the peaks of which might serve for winkers to a starting horse, and carrying a large whip in his hand "Quite well, my dear fellow," while he persists in dragging at it the other homo all the while standing in the absurd position of a finger post at length off comes the glove piecemeal perhaps a finger first, for instance then a thumb at length they tackle to, and shake each other like the very devil not a sober pump handle shake, but a regular jiggery jiggery, as if they were trying to dislocate each other's arms and, confound them, even then they don't let go they cling like sucker fish, and talk and wallop about, and throw themselves back and laugh, and then another jiggery jiggery.
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