PUGMAN'S SPARRING SALOON."

_The Professor_ (_on a little platform, with a pair of Pupils_).
Now then, all you as are lovers o' the Noble and Manly Art o'
Self-Defence, step inside and see it illusterated in a scientific an'
fust-class manner! This (_introducing first Pupil, who rubs his nose
with dignity_) is 'OPPER of 'Olloway, the becoming nine-stun Champion.
This hother's BATTERS o' Bermondsey, open to fight any lad in England
at eight-stun four. Is there anyone among you willing to 'ave a round
or two with either on 'em fur a drink an' admission free?--if so,
now's his time to step forward--there's no waiting, mind yer?

_Joe_ (_to Melia_). I b'lieve as 'ow I could tackle the little 'un--I
used to box above a bit.

_Melia._ Don't ye now, JOE; you'll on'y go and git yourself 'urt or
summat!

_Joe._ _I_ shan't git 'urt. 'Ere, Master, I'm game fur to put on the
gloves wi' _'im_.

_Prof._ Git inside with yer then! (_To Crowd._) Now then for the Great
Glove Contest--Just goin' inside to begin--Mind, there's _no_ waitin'!

_Joe._ 'Ere, MELIA, come along in, and look arter my 'at an' coat.

_Melia._ I dussen't, JOE! I can't abear to see no fightin', I'll bide
'ere till ye come out.

[_JOE enters the tent, followed by the Pupils and a few
Connoisseurs._

_Prof._ (_looking into the interior of tent through a slit in the
canvas_). Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'! They're puttin' on
the gloves now, make 'aste if you're goin' in! (_The Crowd hesitate._)
'Ere! (_To the Champions._) Step outside once more and show
yourselves!

[_The Champions appear, re-mount the platform, and are
introduced all over again._

_Melia_ (_intercepting her swain_). JOE, 'ow are ye gittin' on? You
don't look none the worse so fur; is it neelly over?

_Joe_ (_gruffly_). Neelly over! why, we ain't _begun_ yet--nor likely
to wi' all this bloomin' palaverin'!

_Melia._ I do wish 'twas over--Kip a good 'art, JOE; don't let 'un go
knockin' ye about!

_Joe_ (_with a slight decrease of confidence_). Theer's a way to talk!
I doan't reckon as 'ow he'll _kill_ me, not in three rounds, I doan't,
but if I'd a-know'd there'd be all this messin' about fust, I'd a--

[_He goes inside gloomily._

[Illustration: "Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'!"]

INSIDE THE SPARRING SALOON.

_The Spectators are waiting patiently around the ropes; the
Professor is still on the platform, expatiating on the coming
con