OUTSIDE “PROFESSOR 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 contest.  JOE has found a friend whom he has entrusted with his hat and coat.

Joe (to the Friend).  Jest kip a heye on these ’ere, will ye!