swaggers across to the sticks. "Imp'dent old wosbird!" says he; "I'll
break the bald head on un to the truth."

The old boy is very bald, certainly, and the blood will show fast enough
if you can touch him, Joe.

He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-flapped
waistcoat, which Sir Roger de Coverley might have worn when it was new,
picks out a stick, and is ready for Master Joe, who loses no time, but
begins his old game, whack, whack, whack, trying to break down the old
man's guard by sheer strength. But it won't do; he catches every blow
close by the basket, and though he is rather stiff in his returns,
after a minute walks Joe about the stage, and is clearly a stanch old
gamester. Joe now comes in, and making the most of his height, tries to
get over the old man's guard at half-stick, by which he takes a smart
blow in the ribs and another on the elbow, and nothing more. And now he
loses wind and begins to puff, and the crowd laugh. "Cry 'hold,' Joe;
thee'st met thy match!" Instead of taking good advice and getting his
wind, Joe loses his temper, and strikes at the old man's body.

"Blood, blood!" shout the crowd; "Joe's head's broke!"

Who'd have thought it? How did it come? That body-blow left Joe's head
unguarded for a moment; and with one turn of the wrist the old gentleman
has picked a neat little bit of skin off the middle of his forehead; and
though he won't believe it, and hammers on for three more blows despite
of the shouts, is then convinced by the blood trickling into his eye.
Poor Joe is sadly crestfallen, and fumbles in his pocket for the other
half-sovereign, but the old gamester won't have it. "Keep thy money,
man, and gi's thy hand," says he; and they shake hands. But the old