_Prof._ (_acting as Timekeeper_). Now then, all ready? (_To JOE._)
In you go--What are yer waitin' for? Never mind about takin' orf
yer boots! Gentlemen, BATTERS o' Bermondsey is agoin' to fight three
rounds with a volunteer, one o' your own men. Whatever you see between
'em (_solemnly_), pass no remarks! Time!

[_JOE and "BATTERS o' Bermondsey" walk round each other
and make a fumbling attempt to shake hands, after which JOE,
while preparing to deliver a blow with extreme caution and
deliberation, is surprised by a smart smack on his cheek,
which makes him stagger; he recovers himself and prances down
on BATTERS with a windmill action._

_Batters_ (_limping into his corner_). 'Ere, I say, ole man--moind my
tows--foight at yer right _end_!

_Joe_ (_apologetically_). I didn't mean nothing unfair-like--I
_warnted_ fur to take off them 'ere boots--but I warn't let!

_Batters._ I'll _let_ ye--fur 'taint no corpet slippers as you've got
on, ole feller, I tell yer strite!

[_JOE removes the offending boots._

_Spectators_ (_during the second round, which is fought with more
spirit than science on JOE'S part_). Ah, JOE ain't no match for
'un--he let un _'ave_ it then, didn't he? My word! but it's "Go 'ome
an' tell yer Mother, an' ax yer Uncle 'ow ye be" with 'un, pretty near
every time!