"It is peculiar in modern and Christianised countries," said Mr. Clarkson, anxious to show that he now fully understood the point at issue; "it is peculiar that the opposing parties in a war or other contest implore with equal confidence the assistance of the same deity."
"Millionaires is sleeping three in a bed at Reno. There's a thing!" said the man who was most anxious to impart information.
"The gate comes to £50,000, let alone the pictures," said another. "Each of them's going to get £500 a minute for the time they fight."
"Beats taxis," said the cabman.
"It's hardly fair to criticise the amount," Mr. Clarkson expostulated pleasantly; "the £500 represents prolonged training and practice in the art. As Whistler said, the payment is not for a day's work, but for a lifetime."
"Who are you calling the Whistler?" asked the cabman; "Jim Corbett, or John Sullivan?"
"Jeffries ate five lamb chops to his breakfast this morning," said the man of information, "and Johnson ate a chicken."
"Wish I'd eat both," said the cabman.
"What do you think of the upper-cut?" said the other, turning to Mr. Clarkson to escape the cabman's frivolity.
"Well, I suppose it's a matter of taste—upper-cut or under-cut," Mr. Clarkson answered, smiling at his seriousness. "Most people, I think, prefer under-cut."