Jerry. Yes, and I’m thinking not a little to our dis-satisfaction. I am of opinion that every gentleman should practice the art of self defence, if it were only to protect him from the insults of vulgar ignorance; though I by no means set myself up as a champion for boxing.
Log. No, for if you did we’ve a champion here who would set you down. We’ll drink his health, and may he ever prove as successful as when he floor’d the Black Miller at Thistleton Gap. (All drink).
Tom. Tom, your health. (Cribb rises). Silence for Tom’s speech—doff your castor, Tom—that’s the time of day.
Cribb. Gentlemen, my humble duty to you. Here’s all your healths, and your families. Bless your soul, I can claim no merit for what I’ve done; fighting came naturally like, and thinking others might be as fond of it as myself, why, I always gave them a bellyfull.
Tom. Bravo, Tom, an excellent speech—Cicero never spoke better.
Log. No, nor anything like it.
Tom. Oh, here comes the cup. Look out, Jerry.
Cribb’s Parlour.[32]