Jerry. No go, Tom,—I’m fly—it’s a bad spec; I am not going to expose my ignorance of fencing here—but as far as a bout at single-sticks goes—why I have no objection.
Tom. Bob will accommodate; won’t you, Bob? come, Doctor, you must have a turn—one small taste.
Log. No go! no, no, Mr. Somerset, you’re a downy one at that sport—it won’t fit.
Tom. Positively you shall, Bob—come the least taste.
Log. Well, well! I won’t baulk your fancy, as you seem bent upon sport—but mind, only one bout.
Jerry. No; one will be sufficient. (They place themselves in position).
Tom. Holloa, Jerry, don’t swallow him.
Log. Use me gently, I’m but a green at this.
Tom. Now, then, come up to the scratch. (They play; Jerry makes a hit; Logic parries).
Tom. Well stopp’d—uncommon well, Bob.