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The door of Sir Morton's room was thrown open, and the captain strode in, followed by his men; and, as he saw the knight, standing with his back to the fireplace, he struck a fresh attitude. "Ah! at last!" he cried. "My old brave companion-in-arms! Well met, once more." He stretched out his hands, and swaggered forward to grasp Sir Morton's.
A little brook, a brawling, ruffianly little brook, swaggered from side to side down the glade, swirling in white leaps over the great dark rocks and shouting challenge to the hillsides. Hollanden and the Worcester girls had halted in a place of ferns and wet moss. Their voices could be heard quarrelling above the clamour of the stream.
There was a crowd, too, but the crowd was at a respectful distance on the opposite side of the street. Jimmie Dale still hugged the corner. A man swaggered out from a doorway, quite close to Chang Foo's, and came on along the street. As the other reached the corner, Jimmie Dale sidled forward. "'Ello, Chick!" he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "Wot's de lay?"
We roused ourselves to another spurt of crawling. My mind ran entirely on edible things, on the hissing profundity of summer drinks, more particularly I craved for beer. I was haunted by the memory of a sixteen gallon cask that had swaggered in my Lympne cellar.
When Oliver went to school in the town and tore his clothes, and rolled in mud and punched other boys' heads, Marmaduke remained at home under the educational charge of a governess. Oliver, lean and lanky and swift-eyed, swaggered through the streets unattended from the first day they sent him to a neighbouring kindergarten.
His brisk eye soon discovered me, and he swaggered to the carriage door with that ineffable assurance of manner which was so peculiarly his own. "Ah, ah, Mr. Pelham," said he, "going to Newmarket, I suppose? bound there myself like to be found among my betters. Ha, ha excuse a pun: what odds on the favourite? What! you won't bet, Mr.
The troopers swaggered at a drilled man's marching pace; the Afridi came like a wind devil, ripping down a gully from the northern hills, all frenzy. Had he not seen red again, had only a little brain work mingled in his rage, he would have scored a clean victory and have been free to wreak red vengeance on the rest.
This series of little essays was printed in the New Monthly Magazine in 1826, beginning in January. I. THAT A BULLY is ALWAYS A COWARD. New Monthly Magazine, January, 1826. Hickman. This would be Tom Hickman, the pugilist. In Hazlitt's fine account of "The Fight," Hickman or the Gas-Man, "vapoured and swaggered too much, as if he wanted to grin and bully his adversary out of the fight."
This figure has lost its meaning, for we now travel by rail, and life is expressed in terms of the railway time-table. As has been said, we leave and arrive at places, but we no longer travel. Consequently we cannot understand the hubbub that Marco Polo must have caused among his townsmen when he swaggered in.
Howard swaggered insolently past the sergeant of the guard on his return, and when told to get ready to go out to work, replied, "I guess not, Johnny, unless you want to lose your stripes." But Paine came "home" scared and abject.
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