The Father spake--"O skilled in men and books,
Read me this crowd, inspect them, scan their looks;
See, from their shining heads electric rays,
Reflected, sparkle in their barbers' praise.
Lo, on each bulging front's expansive white
A single jewel flames with central light;
To vacant eyes the haughty eye-glass clings,
Stiff stand their collars, though their ties have wings.
What of their faces? Bloodshot eyes that blink,
And thick lips, framed for blasphemy and drink.
Here the grey hair, that should adorn the Sage,
Serves but to mark a weak, unhonoured age;
There on the boy pale cheeks proclaim the truth,
The faded emblems of a wasted youth.
All, all are loathsome in this motley 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 with calculating rogues. The mob outside was
better than this. But, thank Heaven, we have nothing like this in
London."
And with that he and Father TIME walked gloomily from the hall, and
found themselves once more in the street.
* * * * *
"What ho! my trusty Shooting Star," cried _Mr. Punch_. Whirr-r-r--
And in the thousandth part of a second they found themselves within
measurable distance of TOBY's own Planet. And here _the_ Dog speaks
for himself.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PUNCHIUS PHOEBUS, THE GREAT UNIVERSAL HYPNOTISER.
("_He who must be Obeyed!_")