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Here and there swaggered a strapping riverman, his small felt hat cocked aggressively over one eye, its brim curled up behind; a cigar stump protruding at an angle from beneath his sweeping moustache; his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, "stagged" off at the knee; the spikes of his river boots cutting little triangular pieces from the wooden sidewalk.
But, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to as for nought; aw hadn't for sure. . . . Martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile iv we'n walked a yard; an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur, though hoo says nought. Well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we were both on us fair stagged up.
The boy looked up, Bob saw him start convulsively, and knew that he had met the impact of that peculiar dynamic energy in Roaring Dick's nervous face. He clambered laboriously from the shallows, the water draining from the bottom of his "stagged" trousers. "Get to camp," snapped Dick. "You're laid off." "Why did you ever take such a man on in the first place?" asked Welton.
"A fellow can bone until his brain is nothing but a mess of bone dust," he complained. "Dick, old chum, you'd better go to hops, too." Dick went to only one, in October. He stagged it, whereas Greg often dragged. But Prescott saw no girl there who looked enough like Laura Bentley to interest him.
Their heavy woollen shirts crossed by the broad suspenders, the red of their sashes or leather shine of their belts, their short kersey trousers "stagged" off to leave a gap between the knee and the heavily spiked "cork boots" all these were distinctive enough of their class, but most interesting to me were the eyes that peered from beneath their little round hats tilted rakishly askew.
Before the stage hundreds of seats had been arranged. Every cadet who escorted ladies was privileged to sit with them. Cadets who "stagged" it were expected to stand. All of the plebes were in this number. Presently the cadets, their faces blacked, came out of the dressing tent, taking their places off the stage.
"Up to him!" says his lordship; "what do you mean by being up to him?" "Mean, my lord! why, I was down upon him." "Up to him, and down upon him!" says his lordship, turning to Counsellor Dunning, "what does the fellow mean?" "Why, I mean, my lord, as deep as he thought himself, I stagged him."
On his head he wore a visored cap with an extraordinary high crown; on his back a rather dingy coat cut from a Mackinaw blanket; on his legs trousers that had been "stagged" off just below the knees, heavy German socks, and shoes nailed with sharp spikes at least three-quarters of an inch in length. "Thought you were up in the woods!" Fox was exclaiming. "Where's Fagan?"
In his cant words, "up to him, down upon him, stagged him," there are no metaphors; and we confess ourselves to be as great flats as his lordship, for we do not understand this sort of language. "True no meaning puzzles more than wit," as we may see in another English example.
These boots were armed on the soles with rows of formidable sharp spikes or caulks, a half and sometimes even three quarters of an inch in length. The tight driver's shoe and "stagged" trousers had not then come into use. From the waist down these men wore all alike, as though in a uniform, the outward symbol of their calling. From the waist up was more latitude of personal taste.
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