otley crew,
The Peer, the Snob, the Gentile, and the Jew,
Young men and old, the greybeards and the boys,
These dull professors of debauch and noise."

* * * * *

He ceased. The Wise One gazed in silent gloom,
While oaths and uproar hurtled through the room--
"Hi, there, a monkey on the Pollux Pet;"
"Fifty to forty;" "Blank your eyes, no bet;"
"A level thousand on the Castor Chick;"
"Brandy for two, and, curse you, bring it quick."
While one who spake to _Punch_ rapped out an oath--
"Who cares?" he said, "I stand to win on both.
Fair play be blowed, that's all a pack of lies,
Let fools fight fair, while _these_ cut up the prize.
Old Cock, you needn't frown; I'm in the know,
And if you don't like barneys, dash it, go!"
One blow from _Punch_ had quelled th' audacious man,
He raised his hand, when, lo, the fight began.

"Time! time!" called one; the cornered ruffians rose,
Shook hands, squared up, then swift they rained in blows.
Feint follows feint, and whacks on whacks succeed,
Struck lips grow puffy, battered eye-brows bleed.
From simultaneous counters heads rebound,
And ruby drops are scattered on the ground.
Abraded foreheads flushing show the raw,
And fistic showers clatter on the jaw.

* * * * *

Now on "the mark" impinge the massive hands,
Now on the kissing-trap a crasher lands.
Blood-dripping noses lose their sense of smell,
And ribs are roasted that a crowd may yell.
Each round the other's neck the champions cling,
Then break away, and stagger round the ring.
Now panting Pollux fails, his fists move slow,
He trips, the Chicken plants a smashing blow.
The native "pug" lies spent upon the floor,
Lies for ten seconds,--and the fight is o'er.

* * * * *

Thunders of cheering hail th' expected end,
High in the air ecstatic hats ascend.
While frenzied peers and joyous bookies drain
Promiscuous bumpers of the Club champagne.

But _Mr. Punch_ had seen enough.

[Illustration]

"Do you call this one-round job a fight?" he said, as he rose to
depart. "I call it the work of curs and cowards. Who can call these
fellows fighting-men? They are merely mop-sticks. Men were ruffianly
enough years ago in the country we have left, but they were men
at any rate. Here, they seem to be merely a pack of bloodthirsty
molly-coddles, crossed