I'll swing for him, when I get out. Katherine Lynch reported in “Minor Matters: Willing to Swing for Him.”, in Weekly Mail, Cardiff, 1908-06-20, page 10

But Dick's necessity of behaving as he did was a projection of some submerged reality: he was compelled to walk there, or stand there, his shirt-sleeve fitting his wrist and his coat sleeve encasing his shirt-sleeve like a sleeve valve, his collar moulded plastically to his neck, his red hair cut exactly, his hand holding his small briefcase like a dandy—just as another man once found it necessary to stand in front of a church in Ferrara, in sackcloth and ashes.

She came up to where Tilly was shaking me like a rag doll and, without a word, she king-hit Tilly Devine and then sat on her in the street.

Londoners, and all within the sound of Bow Bell, are in reproach called Cockneys.