"Nothing Like Blood, Sir, In Hosses, Dawgs, And Men"

Context: Young James Crawley, a handsome, devil-may-care youth, is sent by his father, an Anglican rector, and his mother to try to make a favorable impression, for himself and his family, on a rich aunt, Miss Crawley. The young man arrives at Brighton with his suitcase, a favorite bulldog, and a basket of produce from the rectory garden. Before reporting to his aunt's residence he spends an evening with a prizefighter and other unsavory company at a local inn of questionable repute. As much as anything to tease James Crawley's over-correct cousin, Pitt Crawley, the aunt takes kindly to her handsome, if somewhat wild, nephew. After dinner on the day of his arrival at the aunt's residence, the elderly woman leaves the two cousins at table to have a bottle or two of wine, and the conversation turns to the pedigree of the family. Pitt Crawley leads his cousin on in both drink and talk, amused at James' conduct and sporting idiom:

"I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats," Pitt remarked mildly, handing his cousin the decanter to "buzz."
"Killing rats, was I? Well, Pitt, are you a sporting man? Do you want to see a dawg as can kill a rat? If you do, come down with me to Tom Corduroy's, in Castle Street Mews, and I'll show you such a bull-terrier as–Pooh! gammon," cried James, bursting out laughing at his own absurdity,–"you don't care about a dog or rat; it's all nonsense. I'm blest if I think you know the difference between a dog and a duck."
"No; by the way," Pitt continued with increased blandness, "it was about blood you were talking, and the personal advantages which people derive from patrician birth. Here's the fresh bottle."
"Blood's the word," said James, gulping the ruby fluid down. "Nothing like blood, sir, in hosses, dawgs and men. Why, only last term, just before I was rusticated, that is, I mean just before I had the measles, ha, ha–there was me and Ringwood of Christ-church, Bob Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar's son, having our beer at the 'Bell' at Blenheim, when the Banbury bargeman offered to fight either of us for a bowl of punch. . . . Bob had his coat off at once–he stood up to the Banbury man for three minutes, and polished him off in four rounds easy. Gad, how he did drop, sir, and what was it? Blood, sir, all blood."