Hindpocket

“Whisht! whisht!” said Fogarty. “Mr. Fin is a real gentleman every inch of him, and sometimes touchy with strangers—carries a brace of pops, as he calls them, in his big coat hindpockets, ready loaded—can snuff a candle across his own lawn, […]

At the same time he searches for his proof: in his hindpockets were contained articles of reviews and romances of M. Paul de Kock: […]

The old professor put his hand to the hindpocket of his coat to search for the Homer, which was his vade-mecum, when the unfortunate empiric threw up the window and cried out, “Stop, stop, coachman, and There's a man here !” […]

There is a German Graf von Herrenshausen, a large, yellow-bearded, blear-eyed monster, with a frogged coat and a huge pipe-stick projecting from the hindpocket, who kisses my hand whenever we meet, and leers at me from the whist-table – for, happily, he is past dancing — like a Ghoul in an Eastern tale.

Humbly shall I Spit at thee, Crawling my Hand at your HindPocket, as you Kisse Me.